


saltnhalo's tumblr ficlets

by saltnhalo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M, collated work, details in chapter notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2019-08-27 07:50:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 61
Words: 65,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16698385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/pseuds/saltnhalo
Summary: A collection of most/all of the ficlets I've posted to tumblr. Read the chapter titles and summaries for details.





	1. Stressed student Dean

**Author's Note:**

> Since tumblr is now not letting me find some of my ficlets when I search them in my own blog, I figured it was time to collate all these. Tags and descriptions will be in the chapter notes, and there will be a link to each original work (if I can find it) if you'd like to go show it some more support.
> 
> This work will be updated in rounds of three or four ficlets at a time. If I've added anything to any of the collated chapters (canon, NSFW or reverse!verse) I will add 'NEW' next to that chapter title.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is stressed about his engineering project, and their dorm room looks like a bomb has gone off.

The dorm room is a fucking mess.

Castiel pushes open the door to find the floor nearly covered with papers and various mechanical paraphernalia, obscuring the well-worn carpet to the point where he isn’t even sure if he could make it over to his bed. In the centre of it all, the epicenter of the explosion, sits his roommate. Dean’s black-framed reading glasses are perched on his nose as he peers at a set of blueprints in one hand, then looks over to the half-constructed _something_ in his other.

Whenever Dean has a big project due, this is inevitably what ends up happening. Their dorm room is transformed into his ‘workshop,’ despite Castiel’s numerous protests, and his normally patient roommate becomes a snapping, snarling monster. Stressed Dean is Castiel’s least favourite type of Dean.

He clears his throat from the doorway and tries to avoid stepping on a thick report with a title so full of engineering jargon that there’s absolutely no hope at all of discerning its subject. Dean doesn’t look up, just bites his bottom lip and exchanges the blueprints for a screwdriver.

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel tries, more forcefully. This time, he gets a reaction.

Dean’s hand jerks, and the screwdriver scrapes along a metal side. His roommate twists from his seat on the floor, and green eyes glare up at Castiel.

“Cas, what have I told you about interrupting me while I’m in the middle of important shit?” Dean snaps, running his thumb along the piece of metal to check that the screwdriver hadn’t damaged it. Thankfully, it appears that Dean’s project remains intact – if it hadn’t, this conversation would have escalated to a fight very quickly.

As it is, they still need to talk.

“This is my room too, Dean. I don’t mind you working here if you have to, but occupying it to the point where I can’t reach my own bed is a little excessive.”

Dean gestures vaguely at the floor in front of Castiel, his gaze still fixed on his creation. “Just move the papers on friction and resistance, and the bag of flange nuts, and you’ll be fine.” He carries on tinkering with his project, and Castiel can feel his frustration welling up in his chest. It’s not helped by the fact that he has no idea what on earth a ‘flange nut’ is.

“Dean,” he growls, not moving from the doorway – because he’d probably only step on something important, and then Dean would yell at him, and they’d fall into an argument anyway. “I’m serious. Clean the floor, one of us is going to hurt ourselves, and I can’t get to my fucking bed.” He makes no attempt at hiding the anger and frustration in his voice, and Dean definitely hears it, because when he turns back to face Castiel, there’s a sharpness and a fire in those green eyes.

“I’m working on a project, Cas, deal with it.”

Castiel flinches as though he’s been slapped. For all the nights that they’ve hung out together, laughing and talking about nothing in particular with Castiel slowly falling further and further, this is the nasty side of Dean that rarely comes out to play, and it’s like being stabbed in the gut.

He’s hurting; his first instinct is to lash out in retaliation.

“Deal with it? Are you kidding me? This is my room, Dean, I have just as much right to the space as you do, now _clean it up_ , or I’ll—“

“You’ll what?” Dean growls, setting the contraption aside, rising to his feet and pushing his heading glasses up on top of his head. He’s way too attractive like this, fierce fire and barely-contained thunderstorms, and Castiel clenches his teeth so hard that something in his jaw pops. “You’ll complain about me to the RA? Request a room swap? What, Cas? You got a fucking problem?”

And that’s just a push too far, to suggest that Castiel would throw away their whole friendship over a silly argument.

“I didn’t ask for any of this! But do you know why I put up with it all? Because I love you.”

Then again, he might’ve just thrown away their entire friendship anyway.

He slaps a hand over his mouth, his eyes going wide and mortified in an expression that he knows must mirror Dean’s own. The room is silent.

“You love me?” Dean whispers, his green eyes still wide with shock and arms hanging loosely by his side. Castiel wishes that he could turn back time, unsay it, unsay all of it. He’d put up with the bombsite of a room if it just meant that he and Dean could be okay.

“Please, just forget about it, it’s not – I don’t want it to come between us.” His own voice sounds tremulous, sad. Dean just stares at him.

And then he’s moving, delicately picking his way over his various piles of paraphernalia until he’s standing in front of a shocked and immobile Castiel. The pile of metal directly behind Dean means that they’re forced close together, Dean’s socked feet almost on top of Castiel’s tennis shoes, barely any space between their chests.

Castiel only has a second to register the closeness of those green eyes before there are firm, calloused engineer’s hands cupping his cheeks, and warm lips pressing against his own.

 _Dean is kissing him_. He must be hallucinating, surely, but when he lifts one hand to brace himself against Dean’s chest, his roommate feels warm and sturdy and real. _To hell with it_ , he thinks, and melts into the kiss.

It feels like it goes on forever, but it must have only been a few seconds before Dean pulls back, his cheeks flushed and a slightly goofy smile on his lips. “You really meant that?” he asks, and Castiel is too stunned to do anything but nod before Dean reels him in for another kiss. This one lasts significantly longer, and by the time they break apart, they’re both breathless and grinning.

Dean is looking at him like he hung the sun and moon and all the stars, and Castiel knows he must look the same.

“I still want you to clean up the floor,” Castiel tells him, his voice soft.             

Dean laughs, and kisses him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/166206965299/219).


	2. Video games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is exhausted from work, but still agrees to play Human: Fall Flat with Cas.

Dean is a fantastic sport. When he walks in the door after a long day of work to find Castiel with dinner on the table and a new game downloading on the TV, he just smiles, drops his bag by the door and pulls Castiel in for an ‘I’ve missed you’ kiss. It’s one of the things Castiel loves about him, and he makes sure to press his gratitude into Dean’s lips as they stand in the doorway.

Eventually, though, he hears Dean’s stomach rumble, and pulls back from the kiss. “Did you eat anything at work today?” he asks softly, and Dean’s sheepish grin is enough to have Castiel shaking his head and pushing him over to the lasagna cooling on the table. For someone who decimates the kitchen whenever he’s at home, Dean often gets caught up in his work and simply forgets to eat.

They swap work stories as they eat – Dean spent his day chasing down his misplaced blueprints and organizing the list of parts needed for his prototype, Castiel had a meeting with the principal about possibly becoming the head of the English faculty – and then settle down onto the couch together after clearing up.

Dean’s eyes are already drooping as Castiel sets up the game and hands Dean a controller, but he insists he’ll be alright to play. The game is called ‘Human: Fall Flat,’ Castiel explains, and spends the next five minutes glaring at Dean as his gleeful boyfriend attempts to throw Cas’s little blobby human off the platform.

He’d figured that this would be a fun game for Dean, what with his combination of an analytical mind and his penchant for rushing into things with little consideration. Instead, he finds himself attempting to fend off Dean’s character – who grabs Castiel’s on the ass and then refuses to let go. It takes half a minute for Dean’s laugh to die down to a gentle wheeze, and only once he’s pulled Castiel over the edge with him one last time does he give in and agree to tackle the puzzles.

They make it through the first level or two easily, their two little blob men working in tandem. Dean is watching the TV screen sideways with his head in Castiel’s lap, but most of the time he’s able to co-ordinate his character pretty well.

Until they get halfway through the next level, and suddenly Cas’s little blob man is the only one jumping up onto the platform, having left Dean’s behind.

A glance down confirms what Castiel had already expected: Dean is sound asleep, his lips parted and his fingers loose around the controller.

“Dean,” Castiel tries, poking his boyfriend in the shoulder. Onscreen, both characters sways slightly, but otherwise don’t move. “Dean, I need you to wake up, because I can’t do this on my own.” Sure, the levels are designed so that one person could hypothetically complete them by themselves, but Castiel is definitely not at that stage yet.

Still, when Dean doesn’t wake, Castiel soldiers on, leaving the immobile figure on the right side of the screen behind and concentrating on his own odd little avatar. He manages to get a decent way through the puzzles in the level, but then he turns his avatar, and… the camera doesn’t turn with him.

Dean would be able to fix this easily, but Castiel has always been pretty inept at fixing technical difficulties. Still, he’s not going to wake Dean up just to help with this. He looks far too serene, asleep with his head in Castiel’s lap, his lashes resting just above freckled cheekbones. He must have really needed a sleep.

The extent of Castiel’s technical problem solving abilities is to mash at the sticks and buttons on the controller and mutter to himself in the hopes that that will fix his problem. “I just don’t know how to look forward anymore,” he grumbles under his breath as he tries to swivel both sticks at once. “Why does this have to be so hard?”

When his blobby man walks off the edge of the level for the sixth time, Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose and gives up.

They both have the day off tomorrow; surely he can persuade Dean to fix the controller.

And then Castiel will throw him off the level in retaliation for falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/166134862894/yes-um-hello-will-you-pls-write-181-andor-236).


	3. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas comforts Dean after a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: canon-typical violence

_Red flickers in his periphery, behind closed eyelids._

_Fire._

_Blood._

_The twirling, whirling dance of demons as they cut and carve and tear._

_Flesh is a masterpiece, to be manipulated and cut away, piece by piece, stripping him back to his very core. To bone, to raw nerves, to the constant, ever-present scream that tears itself from his lungs, scrapes against his insides like its own tormented being._

_There are black eyes and a sharp grin, more red against the white of teeth, blood smeared over the demon’s lips._

_There is an opalescent black knife, catching the light of the flames and glinting red just before it slices into his stomach._

_The demon laughs, high-pitched and grating._

_And then it stops._

_Everything stops, because there is a crack of thunder that resonates through Dean’s very core, and the demons’ dance jerks to a standstill because there is a man in their midst._

_Except he is not a man._

_His wings are colossal and beautiful, iridescent black feathers that catch the light of unholy fires and transform it into something breathtaking._

_They have left his eyes until last, today, and he is thankful for that as he watches this man – no, angel – cut through the ranks of demons like they are completely insignificant to him._

_The demon who cut into Dean last, in the view of the avenging angel with piercing eyes and electric hair, is the last to die. It shrieks as the silver blade is buried in his back, and the angel lets go as the creature slumps to the ground._

_Those eyes turn to Dean._

Blue _._

_The brush of fingers across his temple. Cool water spreading through his veins. Flesh knitting itself back together until he is whole once again._

_The angel’s lips quirk into a smile, just as the demon rises up._

_The silver blade sings as it slices through the air._

_The sound of it embedding itself in the angel’s back, between his wings, is more sickening that anything Dean has heard in Hell, and suddenly the restraints are gone, the demons are gone, the sulfur and fire and huge, unfurling black wings are gone._

_And it’s just Cas,_ his _Cas, falling to the ground in front of him._

_Blue. Lifeless._

_Dean screams._

He bolts upright in bed, his breaths tearing their way out of his lungs, his hands shaking and his hair sticking to his temples with sweat.

 _Cas_.

Cas had _died_.

It was just a dream.

But it had felt so _real_ , and the need to check that it wasn’t sears through him until he can’t breathe. He twists, frantic, hands pulling at the sheets beside him.

A pair of blue eyes blink up at him, dazed and half-lidded in the near-darkness of their dark bedroom.

“Dean?”

_Thank god, thank fuck, thank every deity that’s out there._

“Dean, is something wrong?”

Castiel is soft and sleep-warm and very much alive when Dean presses his shaking body against his husband. One arm winds around Dean’s shoulders, holding him close until he stops trembling. It’s a little while longer until the vice around his throat relaxes enough to allow him to speak.

“I had a nightmare about you.” His words are rasping, shaking, unsteady. He presses his face into Cas’s chest and holds him tight. “I had to… had to check you were alright.”

His husband makes a soft noise of understanding and presses a gentle kiss to Dean’s sweat-damp hair. “It’s okay, Dean. I’m here. I’m okay, and I’m not leaving.”

The dreams come less frequently now, but they still come. Castiel holds him until the sun begins to filter through the windows, soothing him with steady hands and soft whispers of reassurance.

“I love you, Dean,” Cas whispers against Dean’s cheek, and Dean shudders, clutches at Cas’s t-shirt. If he ever lost him… he doesn’t know what he’d do. 

“I love you too, Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/166127702754/41-i-could-really-go-for-some-tooth-rotting).


	4. Short and NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of short NSFW ficlets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: NSFW.
> 
> 1: blowjob. 2: bondage. 3: rimming. 4: edging. 5: riding.

1.

Dean is truly beautiful when he’s on his knees.

Castiel leans back on one elbow as he watches his boyfriend, the way his lashes flutter over half-lidded eyes, those full, pink lips pressing against Cas’s inner thigh. It’s slow and languid and a gentle tease, and he could almost melt into the mattress beneath him.

The gentle graze of Dean’s teeth over sensitive skin makes him gasp, and he lifts his gaze to find those green eyes watching him, dancing, teasing. Dean’s lips curl up into a smirk, and then he’s mouthing at Cas’s balls, and he can’t resist lifting a hand to the back of Dean’s head as he groans. Those talented lips and clever hands never fail to take him apart, and when paired with those wicked green eyes, there’s no way Castiel could resist.

Dean’s lips drag up, along his shaft, until his tongue is teasing at the head of Castiel’s cock. Sometimes, he’d be impatient, or he’d want it faster, loving the sight of Dean taking his cock as deep as he can.

Tonight, though, he leans back, bites his bottom lip, and _watches_.

He’s never been more glad for the full-length mirror in front of their bed; from his vantage point, he can see the stretch of Dean’s plush lips around the girth of his cock, green eyes heavy-lidded as Dean loses himself. He can also see, in the mirror, the beautiful curve of Dean’s back and the swell of his ass. His boyfriend is beautiful, and Castiel admires all of him as Dean bobs his head, swirling his tongue around Castiel’s shaft with a moan that reverberates through Castiel’s very core.

It’s slow and lazy and relaxed, but even so, Castiel isn’t going to last very long.

The hand on the back of Dean’s head guides his movements until Castiel feels his orgasm approaching. He tightens his fingers in Dean’s hair and watches; the bow of Dean’s thighs, the muscles of his back, the shadow of long lashes and the movement of spit-slick lips.

It doesn’t take Castiel long to come with Dean’s name on his lips.

 

2.

“Are you comfortable?”

Castiel’s voice sounds as though it’s coming from a great distance away. It’s a little hard to focus on, but Dean blinks slowly and concentrates as much as he can.

There are fingers on his cheek, caressing, thumb smoothing back and forth across his cheekbone. Blue eyes swim into view. Dean inhales, deeply, just to feel the bite of the ropes, then nods.

Yes, he’s comfortable.

“Good boy,” Cas whispers, and the fingertips skate downwards. They trail over the column of his neck to his collarbone, then over the first of the ropes crossing Dean’s torso. His breath hitches – it feels amazing – but other than that, he doesn’t react.

Castiel’s fingers trace his handiwork across Dean’s body in the intricate weave of the hemp; across Dean’s chest, down his arms to his bound wrists and over his thighs. Every time Cas brushes a little more firmly against the rope, Dean sinks further and further into his floaty headspace. Even the press of the floor against his knees has dulled to a faraway sensation.

Dean blinks, slowly, then closes his eyes. He trusts Cas, with every fibre of his being.

Fingers brush against his cock, hard and unattended, and he makes a soft sound in the back of his throat but doesn’t move, doesn’t speak.

“So good, Dean,” come Cas’s words, and Dean holds onto them, wraps them over his body; another layer atop the rope. “So good for me. So beautiful.”

Cas’s ropes are an extension of Cas’s hands, and Dean leans into the embrace, dropping his head and submitting completely.

 

3.

It starts off with an innocent enough question.

The two of them are back in Dean’s dorm room, Dean fresh out of the shower, tangled up on his bed. Cas is listening to music with his head pillowed on Dean’s chest, while Dean scrolls idly through Facebook on his phone. They’re both recovering from their first ever finals week, and Dean wants to celebrate in some way.

There’s one thing he just can’t get out of his mind, though.

He’s been thinking about it for days, the idea playing a loop in his head, and now that they’re done with finals, there’s nothing keeping him from suggesting it. In the end, he decides to bite the bullet.

“Cas?” he asks, dropping his phone to the side and looking down at his boyfriend. When he doesn’t get an answer, he tries again, this time pulling on the wire of one earbud. “Babe?”

Castiel glances up, meets Dean’s gaze, and pulls out his earbuds. “Yes, Dean?” he asks, his lips curled up in a slow, content smile.

Dean knows he must be blushing all the way up to his ears, but he forces himself to continue anyway.

“Have you ever tried rimming?”

Cas barely blinks. “Yes, of course,” he says. A second passes, and then his eyes narrow into a squint, and it’s like he can see right through Dean to the truth beneath. “Have _you_?”

The way Dean’s cheeks heat even further and his gaze slides away must be indication enough, because Cas’s smile sharpens into a grin, and he props himself up on his elbows. “Really?”

Dean shakes his head, then clears his throat. “I’d like to, uh…” Fuck, why is this so _hard_? “I’d like to try it, though,” he mumbles. It’s no surprise that Cas is completely on board.

Ever the wonderful boyfriend, though, Cas recognizes Dean’s nervousness, his shyness, and he takes things slow. He relaxes Dean with kisses, takes off every item of clothing until the two of them are bare and naked in Dean’s bed, pressed close and with Dean’s fingers threaded through Cas’s hair.

Slowly, only once Dean feels ready, feels comfortable, does Cas slide down his body and settle between his legs, gently nudging his thighs out of the way. It’s stupid to feel exposed when he’s been in this position with Cas many times before, but Castiel eases his self-consciousness with kisses pressed to his hips, his thighs, even along the line of his cock, until he’s flushed and panting.

The first touch of Cas’s tongue to his hole makes Dean jerk in surprise, but after a second he melts into it completely; he’s not sure exactly what he was expecting, but it wasn’t for it to feel _this good_. Cas is wickedly skilled with his tongue (though Dean already knew that), and it’s not long before he’s almost completely incoherent with pleasure, tugging on Cas’s hair and rolling his hips up as much as he can in time with Cas’s motions.

When Dean comes, not long after, with Cas’s tongue in his ass and the pad of Cas’s finger rubbing over his prostate, the only thought that remains amidst the white-hot pleasure is, _holy shit, we need to do this again_.

 

4.

It starts out innocently enough.

Cas has the cuffs out, and is meticulous in securing them first to Dean’s wrists, and then to their headboard, but that’s nothing new.

“Come on,” Dean whines, arching up as Cas checks the cuffs. He has a little bit of give, but not much. He rattles the chains and pulls on the cuffs, just to be a brat. Cas arches an eyebrow at him and continues.

Only once he’s satisfied does he sit back between Dean’s legs and observe his sub, splayed out before him – but not submissive yet, not even close. Dean smirks up at his dom and bats his lashes. “Don’t know what to do with me, huh?”

“Oh, I know exactly what to do with you,” Cas growls, and his fingers press into the meat of Dean’s thighs.

Dean grins. This should be good.

~

Dean tugs at the cuffs, his head thrown back, gasping his pleasure into the air as Cas swallows him down to the root. His legs are free, and he uses that to his advantage, planting his feet on the mattress and fucking up into Cas’s mouth. His dom, surprisingly enough, just hums and allows it.

“Cas, I’m so close,” Dean groans, caught up in the near-crest of his orgasm—

And then Cas’s mouth is gone, and there are fingers wrapped tight around the base of his erection.

Dean shudders, choking on his own breath at the whiplash. His orgasm subsides, and he whimpers pitifully, rocking his hips.

“You can’t come until I say so,” Cas says, his grip firm and voice unwavering. “Understand?”

Dean can only nod, desperately trying to regain his breath. Slowly, he comes back down from the edge, his muscles trembling.

Castiel smiles, and leans down to press a kiss to the head of his cock.

“Good.”

~

Dean loses track of time. He’s nothing but a mess of sensation, reduced down to the feeling of the cuffs around his wrists, the bedsheets against his skin, Cas’s lips on his cock and the fingers deep in his ass. Cas is relentless, bringing Dean to the brink over and over again but never letting him fall over the other side. Dean trembles with the effort of keeping himself from coming, and he can vaguely hear his own voice through the hazy fog of his arousal.

“Cas, please, _please_ , Cas, I need—”

Castiel’s fingers rub over his prostate again and he writhes, pulling desperately at the cuffs. His body shakes.

“Please, please, please…”

There’s nothing but Cas, Cas’s hands, Cas’s eyes, Cas’s voice, deep and soothing. Tears trickle from the corners of his eyes, and Cas’s lips kiss them away. All Dean can feel is the ache, the need, the _desperation_ , of his own arousal.

“Shh, Dean,” Cas whispers. Dean whimpers at the brush of lips against his own, and the curl of Cas’s fingers around his aching cock.

“Come for me,” he hears, piercing through the haze, and he does.

 

5.

“Please, sir.”

Dean’s sweat-damp hair is standing up in spikes, his cheeks flushed and green eyes glassy.

“ _Please_.”

Castiel smacks him across the thigh, then grips it and uses the leverage to thrust up into his sub. Dean’s muscles tremble beneath his touch, and he moans.

“You remember the rules, pet. You can’t come until I do. If you want it, you’ll have to work for it.”

His hands knead over Dean’s thighs, and he groans as Dean redoubles his efforts. He’ll never tire of the sight of Dean riding him, balanced on his knees with his hands tied behind his back and his muscles flexing with the effort.

Dean grinds his hips in a dirty little circle, and Castiel hisses out through his teeth. He might not last much longer, and his critical eye tells him Dean is nearing his physical limit. “So good, pet,” he praises, shifting his hands to Dean’s hips and pulling him down to meet every thrust until his sub is a moaning, writhing mess. “I’m so close.”

It doesn’t take long at all for Castiel’s pleasure to crest, especially not when Dean looks so wrecked and beautiful, his bottom lip swollen and pink from biting down on it. He comes deep inside his sub with a groan, and then reaches behind Dean, freeing his wrists with one firm tug to the quick-release knot.

“That’s it. Touch yourself,” he says, his voice still shaky from his orgasm.

His hands freed, Dean plants one palm against Castiel’s chest, barely able to hold himself up, and curls the fingers of his other hand around his red, weeping cock. It takes barely a handful of strokes before he’s coming, and he can’t hold himself up any longer, collapsing onto Castiel’s chest with a cry.

Castiel catches him with strong hands and holds him through the aftershocks of his orgasm, carding his fingers through his hair as Dean catches his breath. “Shh,” he whispers, stroking his other hand soothingly down Dean’s back. “You’re all mine, pet. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. [Blowjob](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/170219486649/inspired-by-this-gif-dean-is-truly-beautiful-when). 2. [Bondage](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/171895795549/are-you-comfortable-castiels-voice-sounds-as). 3. [Rimming](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/172200706554/thanks-are-you-reddie-cas-for-the-prompt-it). 4. [Edging](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/172514346564/hi-idk-if-youre-doing-the-number-prompts-still). 5. [Riding](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/174384644359/for-the-nsfw-starters-could-you-combine-18-26).


	5. Exhibitionism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas fucks Dean against the window of their hotel room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: NSFW

Castiel sits on the couch in their hotel suite, one arm wrapped around Dean’s shoulders, pressed against him from shoulder to hip to thigh. “Do you want me to go over it one more time?” he asks, his words murmured against Dean’s temple.

Dean shakes his head, and even without looking, Cas knows that he’s grinning, eager to go. “Nah, babe. I got it. I trust you.”

He’ll never get sick of hearing that – but still, he wants to make sure. Castiel pulls away just a little, and Dean turns his head, sparkling green eyes meeting blue. “You know I love you, right?”

His fiancé – _husband_ , he has to get used to it now, it still doesn’t feel real – nods, his gaze soft and lips curled up into a smile, and that’s all that Castiel needs to slip into his role. His smile sharpens, his fingers gripping Dean’s thigh, and the hitch in Dean’s breathing, the way his eyes glaze just slightly, has Cas heady with control.

“I have every intention of fucking you like I don’t,” he growls, and it elicits a full-body shiver from Dean. Castiel kisses him once, slow and deep, then pulls away and leans back against the couch. “I’ll be in the bedroom in ten minutes, love. I want to find you prepped, naked and kneeling. Understand?”

Dean nods obediently, and while the grin is gone, the cheeky, defiant spark in his eyes remains. Castiel loves it – it makes it all the sweeter when Dean is writhing and begging and completely undone by the end.

“Go,” he says, a gentle order.

Dean stands from the couch and disappears into the bedroom.

~ 

He’s so beautiful like this. Kneeling on the plush, carpeted floor, hands clasped neatly behind his back. Castiel takes a second to admire the silver of his wedding ring, and wishes that he could have brought the matching collar along on their honeymoon, but it’s too precious of a gift to risk to the possibility of becoming lost. It will have to wait for later scenes – for now, they can more than make do.

Castiel paces slowly around Dean, admiring him from every angle; the curve of his ass, the strong muscles of his back and thighs, the hard, flushed line of his cock as it curves up towards his stomach. There are so many ideas circling his head – having Dean like this does that to him – but there’s one that they’ve both wanted to try for so long now.

“Are you listening, sub?” he asks, and Dean twitches, his gaze darting up to meet Castiel’s for a fraction of a second before it drops again. That won’t do. But Dean does nod – he _is_ listening – and Castiel knows that they can begin properly.

Usually he would draw out the tension, make Dean wait, until he was strung out on anticipation, but tonight he can’t do it. He’s too excited for this scene, for the effect that he knows it will have on Dean, so he can’t stop himself from ordering;

“I want you right up against that window.”

Dean swallows, a delicate bob of his throat, then rises on long, graceful legs and crosses the room to the wall-length window spanning one side. He presses his palms against the glass, then spreads his legs to a little past shoulder-width, and drops his head.

It had taken Castiel a while to convince Dean that this would be safe. They are, after all, on the 17th floor, and Castiel is not known for his ability to hold himself back during sex. He had done his research into the soundness and strength of the windows, and left that research with Dean so that he could read it and agree.

The windows are strong enough to support the weight of many more grown men than only two, which is why Castiel doesn’t hesitate to drape himself along Dean’s back and lean into him. The buckle of his belt must be biting into the small of Dean’s back, but his sub doesn’t complain, doesn’t move. One of Castiel’s hands slides around to Dean’s front, splaying over his hip and just avoid brushing his cock, while the other trails down Dean’s side to his ass, fingertips toying with the base of the plug currently stretching Dean wide.

“Do you like knowing that people can see you?” Castiel rumbles against Dean’s ear, and he feels his sub tremble and push back against the friction of the plug.

“Yes, sir,” Dean whispers, and Castiel rewards him by pulling the plug out halfway, then sliding it back into him and grinding it against his prostate. Dean moans quietly, muffling the sound by biting down on his bottom lip. He receives a swat on the ass in retaliation; not enough to hurt, but enough to be a warning.

“You know I like to hear you,” Castiel says, and Dean nods, his breaths coming a little faster now. Cas can’t get over how beautiful he looks like this, washed in the colours of the setting sun, palms pressed against the glass and his body and soul bared so beautifully for Castiel.

He teases his sub for a little while longer, grazing his fingers over Dean’s nipples, his cock, dragging them through his hair and toying with the base of the plug. Eventually, Dean is panting, his hips rocking in the air in search of friction and quiet moans falling from his lips.

The sound he makes when Castiel pulls out the plug and tosses it aside onto the floor is little more than a whimper, but it quickly morphs into a needy whine as Castiel unbuckles his belt, unzips his fly and frees himself from his slacks. Dean can feel Cas’s length pressed between his cheeks, so close but not _there_ , and it’s only when he chokes out a, “ _please_ ,” that Castiel obliges, guiding the head of his cock to Dean’s hole and sliding inside in one long, powerful thrust.

Castiel promised _hard_ , and _hard_ is what Dean gets. One hand curls around his sub’s hip, pulling him back into every sharp thrust, while the other threads into Dean’s hair and pulls. He keeps Dean looking out the window as Castiel fucks him, out in the open where anyone could see if they only looked up – or across, from the other buildings. Castiel knows that that knowledge is what’s making Dean gasp and tremble and moan, shoving back into every thrust with his palms still firmly planted on the glass. As the sun sets, more and more lights turn on in the surrounding buildings, and it only makes Castiel want to put on more of a show, so that the world can see how well he can take apart _his_ sub, _his_ husband.

“Are you close?” he growls out, tugging Dean by his hair until his back is pressed up against Castiel’s still-clothed front, and he takes the opportunity to crowd Dean right up against the glass. He can’t fuck Dean as hard like this, but he can still grind nice and deep, and Dean’s fingers claw at the glass when the head of Cas’s cock slides over his prostate.

“Yes, yes, Cas – _sir_ ,” he gasps out, rocking his hips back against every thrust. “So close, please.”

At any other time, Castiel would punish Dean for his slip-up, but he’s so far gone on the heady sensation of their exhibitionism that he merely files it away for later. Instead, he murmurs, “come for me,” against the shell of Dean’s ear, and wraps his free hand around Dean’s cock.

His beautiful sub cries out and comes across the glass of the window, and Castiel is helpless but to follow him over the edge, pressing his forehead against Dean’s shoulder as his cock empties inside Dean.

The two of them stay there for a long minute as they catch their breath, pressed up against the window as Castiel’s arms come up to cradle Dean against his body.

“I love you,” he whispers against Dean’s shoulder, and feels his husband give a breathless laugh in return.

“Love you too, Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/172231322269/if-ur-still-doing-the-numbers-thing-can-u-pls-do).


	6. Movie Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas sneak away during movie night.

There are only a few rules that they have in place for movie night.

  1. No cell phones.
  2. Anyone who speaks shall be pelted with popcorn.



(The popcorn pelting never actually deters anyone, but it does often escalate into mild food fights)

And lastly,

  1. Dean shall not be given a monopoly on choosing the movies.



There are only so many cowboy movies that the rest of the group can suffer through before enough is enough, and while Castiel had consoled his grouchy boyfriend the next time they’d turned up at Charlie’s dorm to see the addition, he was secretly relieved. He can only take so many movies of Dean’s choice before they all start to blur into one, no matter how much Dean loves them.

It’s a Thursday night, and once again, their friend group are all piled into Charlie’s dorm, occupying every possible inch of space that they can find; couches, cushions, the odd beanbag. Thanks to Dean needing to finish and submit an assignment, the two of them are the latest, and so are relegated to the threadbare couch at the back of the room with the pokey spring.

Dean grumbles and wiggles against Castiel’s side as Charlie kills the lights and starts the movie – some comedy that Garth picked, he believes – and then settles, Castiel’s arm around his shoulders.

Some Thursdays, Dean falls asleep on Castiel, if he’s had a long week, or leaves him to get more involved in the popcorn fights, and sometimes they just stay right where they are, cuddled up together and watching the movie.

Tonight, though, Dean is in a _mood_.

“Cas,” he whispers halfway through, lips almost brushing the shell of Castiel’s ear. It makes him shiver. “Yes, Dean?” he mumbles quietly in reply, turning his head a little so that he can hear better.

He knows he may have made a mistake when Dean uses that opportunity to kiss along Castiel’s jaw, then down his throat. It feels amazing, but they’re in a room full of their friends (even if they are at the back and out of view). He catches Dean’s hand when it starts wandering up his thigh. “ _Yes_ , Dean?” he prompts again, and feels his boyfriend grin against his neck.

“You wanna get outta here?” Dean asks, his voice still pitched low. No one will be able to hear them over the movie – which they _should_ be watching.

“Someone will see us leave,” Castiel protests, but it’s weak, and Dean knows it. His hand slips out of Castiel’s grasp and slides up further to brush over the growing bulge in Castiel’s hands. Castiel can feel his resolve slipping away more and more by the second.

When Dean’s fingers tighten and squeeze, just a little, it’s game over. “They’re all watching the movie,” Dean whispers. “They’re not even going to notice.”

Castiel swallows, then nods.

They’re as quiet as they can be as they sneak out of the room, and then Dean has Castiel’s hand in his grip, pulling him back to their dorm room like a man on a mission.

~

Next Thursday, there are four rules on the movie night list. 

  1. No cell phones.
  2. Anyone who speaks shall be pelted with popcorn.
  3. Dean shall not be given a monopoly on choosing the movies.



And the new addition:

  1. No hooking up during movie night.



Charlie glares at them both and delegates them to a beanbag at the front of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/172649526949/emmaaa-hiii-2-for-the-nsfw-prompts-pleasee).


	7. Sexting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean helps Cas relax before an important meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: NSFW

Castiel tries to calm the movements of his bouncing leg, instead focusing on the clock that hangs on the opposite wall. Why he’d thought it was a good idea to turn up so early to such an important meeting, he’d never understand; all it’s serving to do is make him more nervous.

He inhales a calming breath, instead, but it does little to help his nerves.

In his pocket, his phone buzzes, and he immediately moves to fish it out. Right now, any distraction is a good distraction.

And this really _is_ a good distraction, because it’s Dean.

_What time’s your presentation today?_

He could have done without the reminder of his looming trial, the one thing standing between him and his corporate promotion, but he’ll take it. He shifts his briefcase into his lap so that he can type with both thumbs.

_Noon. I wish I hadn’t gotten here so early._

There’s still twenty minutes to go until he’s even called in, for god’s sake.

Dean’s reply is quick to pop up on the screen.

_You nervous?_

_Of course I’m nervous, I’ve been working on this for months. It’s crucial._

The three dots that indicate Dean’s typing appear, then disappear, then appear again. Castiel frowns, wondering what the hell he’s up to - Dean is never usually one to construct his texts too carefully. Finally, a text appears.

_I’m sure you’re gonna do fine. The bathroom mirror is sick of your speech, you need to give it to some real people._

And then…

_What are you wearing?_

Well. He certainly wasn’t expecting that question. For a few seconds, he considers his reply, then figures that there’s no harm in humouring Dean, whatever he’s up to. It will provide him with a distraction before he’s called into the meeting, at least.

 _The usual_ , he types back. _A white shirt, black slacks and blazer, as well as that blue tie you bought for me last Christmas_.

Dean’s replies don’t take long to come through at all.

_Mm, I do like that tie._

_It’d look so nice tied around your wrists._

Castiel narrowly avoids choking on his own spit.

Quickly, he glances up, checking the rest of the waiting area to make sure that no one can see his phone. It’s only him, a pot plant, and two interns sitting opposite him and talking to each other in low tones.

Still, he angles his body and his phone away from them, to be doubly sure that no-one can see. Hopefully the blush on his cheeks won’t give him away, and he swallows as he types out his reply.

_Dean._

_What, Cas? I’m just sayin. If I was there, I’d wanna see how nice that tie would look around your wrists._

_This is a public space, Dean, I hardly think you could tie me up without raising a few objections._

Still, the idea of it… Castiel clears his throat, crosses his legs, and checks that his briefcase is still covering the growing bulge in his slacks. His phone buzzes again.

_Fine, Mr. Literal. Not right there, wherever you are. In the bathrooms, then, or - in your office? You can’t tell me you’ve never had an office fantasy._

Fuck, Dean knows him too well. Castiel’s breath hitches, and he bites his bottom lip as he deliberates. Should he let this continue?

He’s certainly not feeling anxious any more. In fact, his heart is beating double-time against his ribcage for a very different reason.

Fuck it.

_I may have once or twice. What are you suggesting, Dean?_

_I’m suggesting tying your hands behind your back and blowing you until you can’t even remember your own name._

Of course Dean would go straight for what he wanted. He isn’t especially known for his subtlety - but right now, that blunt statement is making the blood rush south faster than Castiel was expecting, and it leaves him a little light-headed.

 _Fuck_ , is all he can reply. He can almost picture Dean’s smirk.

_Maybe. Or maybe we can save that for next time. This time, I would want to take it slow. Unbutton that shirt, kiss your collarbones, your neck, then slowly sink to my knees. Would it drive you crazy, knowing that you couldn’t touch me as I kissed your cock through your slacks, and slowly unzipped them?_

Oh god, oh god, this is so terribly inappropriate for a work environment - especially since Dean is detailing what he wants to do to Castiel _in_ his work environment - but somehow, he can’t bring himself to stop Dean.

 _Yes. Yes, it would,_ he types back with trembling fingers.

 _I’d like seeing how much I could ruffle that pretty, fancy suit of yours,_ Dean continues. _Get you all debauched, with your shirt untucked and unbuttoned, your fly open. I’d tease you and tease you until you were begging for my mouth._

_That’s the reason you would tie my hands, is it? So you can torture me with that sinful mouth of yours?_

_You got it, babe. I probably couldn’t draw it out too long, since we could be caught by anyone walking in, but I’d keep you on the edge long enough that you’d be begging for it. And then… finally, when you couldn’t take it any more…_

Castiel is almost on the edge of his chair now, his face flushed, cock straining unashamedly against the fabric of his slacks. Thank god for his briefcase.

 _Yes?_ he prompts, and the three dots appear, disappear, reappear.

_You’ll have to wait ;) don’t wanna make you late for your big presentation!_

What?

Castiel looks up at the wall opposite and - fuck - it’s almost noon. Three minutes to, to be precise. He swears under his breath and runs a hand through his hair. Dean had managed to distract him from his nervousness, but now he has a very insistent erection to get rid of before the meeting. He sucks in a long breath, closes his eyes, then types out a message.

 _You’re going to pay for this when I get home_ , he vows, and Dean’s almost-instantaneous reply makes him grin.

_Oh, I know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/172305626714/prompt-39-maybe).


	8. College stress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel helps Dean relax during finals week.

Usually, living with Dean is fantastic. It has been right from the start of their freshman year, when they met, and only improved from there after they started dating a year later. They spend most of their time together, day in and day out – that’s just the way that it’s been since day one.

Castiel loves Dean, and he loves living with Dean.

But he always comes to dread finals week.

Castiel works hard, he knows that. He’s an art history major; if he wants to graduate with any chance of pursuing a career in art history, he has to graduate near the top of his class. Many nights, he and Dean study side by side, taking it in turns to curate the music they listen to. During finals week, he ramps up his own amount of study, making sure that he gives himself enough time to work on things and get them done to his satisfaction. He knows he’s done enough to get the grade that he needs.

But _Dean_.

Dean works harder than anyone Castiel has ever met. Even during the rest of the semester, he’s constantly doing extra credit assignments and staying up late to _perfect_ every single thing he has to turn in.

And it only gets worse during finals week.

Dean hardly sleeps; the rest of his time is spent attending classes, talking to his professors and TAs at every available moment, or hunched over his desk in their dorm room. Cas has to ply him with food to get him to unwind even for a little bit – maybe long enough to watch TV for a while, and then Dean goes right back to work.

This is their last finals week before they graduate, and Dean is worse than Cas has ever seen him. He’s spent the entire day at his desk, the wooden surface piled so high with practice exams and textbooks and notes that Castiel’s own area is in danger of being overrun. It’s stupid, really – Dean is fantastically smart, and all his assignments this semester have come back with incredibly high marks. He just wishes that Dean would recognize that, and stop killing himself over this stupid final.

When Cas returns from his exam, his head still swimming with information and his hand sore from writing, he finds Dean sitting in the middle of the bed, textbooks spread out around him and a chewed pencil tucked behind his ear. He looks up when the door opens, and the frown line between his brows softens just a little when he sees Cas.

“Hey, babe,” he says, one finger marking the place in his textbook where he’d been reading. “How was the final?”

Castiel can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. It may be a little insensitive to Dean, who still has one to go and is still studying like his life depends on it, but he can’t help his relief. “I think it went well. I’m so happy to have it all over with.”

He sets his bag down by the door, kicks off his shoes, and crawls onto the bed to sit beside Dean. “Still studying?” he asks, resting his chin on Dean’s shoulder and looking down at the array of books in front of Dean. “Surely there’s nothing left in the Engineering world that you don’t know about by now.”

Dean gives him a mock glare, but leans his weight against Cas’s side. “Very funny. I’m just… re-reading. Making sure I really do know everything I need to.”

A few seconds pass, and then Dean sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I just don’t want to fuck it up, Cas,” he admits, more quietly. Castiel loops one arm around Dean’s waist, a silent support, and listens as Dean continues.

“I mean, I’ve worked so hard, I don’t want to mess up here, at the last hurdle. I just want to prove that I can do it. That I didn’t make a mistake in going to college instead of just taking a job with my dad.”

Castiel lets out a long breath, thinking. Dean is stressed, that much is obvious, but Cas isn’t particularly sure that constantly re-reading the textbooks and overwhelming his brain is the best thing to be doing right now. He already has all the information he needs.

Cas comes to a decision, and reaches for the textbooks. He shoves them away, down to the foot of the bed.

“Cas, what the fuck? I need those,” Dean protests, but anything further he was going to say on the subject is silenced when Castiel climbs into his lap and settles his hands on Dean’s shoulders.

“Dean,” he says, his lips curving up into the barest hint of a smile. Dean stares up at him, eyes wide with surprise, but he doesn’t try to move, and Cas continues. “You are going to be fine. I know you, and I know what you’re capable of, and I know how hard you’ve worked. You are going to ace that final tomorrow morning, I know it.”

His words must have the right effect, because Dean’s gaze softens. Warm, ink-stained hands settle on Castiel’s hips, and Dean presses their foreheads together, his eyes sliding closed for a second. “Thanks, Cas,” he whispers. “I’m just… scared, I guess. I want it to be perfect. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Cas might not be able to change the way Dean performs tomorrow, but there’s at least one thing he _can_ do.

“You’re going to be fine, Dean,” Cas tells him, and his smile widens into a grin. “And in the meantime… I’m sure there’s something I can do to distract you from your stress.”

One of Dean’s eyes slits open, and the other follows suit as soon as he catches sight of the mischievous look on Cas’s face. His mouth curls up in a matching smile, and he raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And what would that be?”

Castiel’s only reply is to shift his palm to the centre of Dean’s chest and push him back onto the bed, his boyfriend laughing as Cas follows him down to steal a kiss. Dean’s hands slide up his back as Cas straddles Dean’s waist, and yeah, Cas thinks he might have a pretty good chance of distracting Dean like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/171640689134/for-thursdays-fallen-angel-who-is-currently-in).


	9. Cafe meet-cute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finally makes a move on the cute guy he keeps seeing in his local cafe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a birthday gift for [myheartofmusic](http://myheartofmusic.tumblr.com).

The guy with the trench coat is at Dean’s café again.

Dean likes the place because of the free wifi, the cheap coffee and its proximity to campus. Despite how close it is to the university, though, the little hole-in-the-wall café isn’t super well known. He likes it that way—it’s a good place to come and work on his thesis when he gets a craving for a coffee or a slice of pie that’s probably not the best he’s ever had, but that reminds him distinctly of his mom’s.

He started going for the location and the coffee and the quiet, but he stays for another reason entirely.

The man with the trench coat turned up a few weeks after Dean found the place. He’s probably around Dean’s age, possibly slightly older, and Dean has only heard him speak in the instances where he’s ordering his coffee. Afterwards, he slides into the small booth by the corner window, pulls on his headphones, and types.

Dean doesn’t know anything else about him, and it’s frustrating. Even if he could hear the guy having a casual conversation, he’d be able to parse out some information, as a linguistics grad student, but all he can get from the man’s basic orders is that he’s quiet, polite, and has a deep voice that makes Dean weak at the knees. It’s not enough to sate Dean’s curiosity, not by a long shot.

After weeks of being distracted from his thesis by the man with the trench coat and the blue eyes and the headphones, Dean decides that he’s had enough.

That morning, Dean sets up early. He gets his coffee and a few pastries to tide him over, sets himself up with his laptop in the corner booth, and waits.

This might all be a waste of time, since he’s never been able to pinpoint any kind of pattern to the guy’s visits, but at least he can use today to get some serious work done on his thesis. Dean sips his coffee, spreads his data out across the table, and gets to work.

Except his plan to make progress while he waits backfires a little, because before he knows it, he’s elbow-deep in his research, and there’s a polite cough to his right.

Dean looks up into a familiar pair of blue eyes.

 _Fuck_.

He startles in surprise and rips his headphones out, his elbow bumping a stack of data sheets. The man pins them to the table with his palm before they can fall, and gives them a curious look before returning his attention to Dean.

“I haven’t seen you in this booth before,” he says, and Jesus, his voice is much more distracting than it is when overheard from a distance.

“I, um,” Dean says eloquently, feeling his cheeks blush red. _Pause fillers, Dean? Really? We can’t even construct a proper sentence now?_ “I was waiting,” he blurts out without thinking. That makes him seem like a huge fucking creeper, though—he tries to cover it up as quickly as he can. “And studying. Mostly studying. Just… workin’ on my thesis.”

The man slowly raises one eyebrow. Dean knows he’s been caught. “Waiting for what?” he asks, but the intonation and the small curve of his lips suggests that he knows—the answer to his question is not a _what_ but a _who_.

“Uhh…” Dean winces—this could either go really well, or really badly.

Fuck it. He takes the leap.

“I was waiting for you, actually,” he says, with more confidence than he’s feeling right now. “You sit here a lot and I thought I’d… well. Say hi.” Real smooth.

The guy looks at Dean, and then he smiles, wide enough to show his teeth, and _goddamn_.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” He swings his laptop bag off his shoulder and slides into the booth opposite Dean. “I could always use some company while I’m writing.”

Dean can’t help his own grin as he shoves some of his papers out of the way to make room, then holds his hand out. “I’m Dean,” he says, somewhat giddily—because this guy is _gorgeous_ , and he’s _smiling_ , and everything’s coming up Dean.

“Castiel,” the man says. His hand, when he slides it into Dean’s, is warm and soft. “Nice to meet you, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/175978042889/happy-birthday-myheartofmusic-the-guy-with-the).


	10. Witch Cas/Familiar Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean surprises Cas with an anniversary gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a gift for [Migglangelus](http://migglangelus.tumblr.com).

Castiel comes home to an empty house. 

Usually Dean is home from work by this time, and can be found starting dinner or watching TV or taking a nap on their bed, but it’s unusual for there to be no answer when Castiel calls out a  _hello_. He frowns and reaches into their bond.

_Dean?_

The reply is immediate—he’s close by, then.

_You’re home early. What’s up?_

_Where are you?_

There’s a pause—Castiel senses through their connection that Dean is… hiding something? He sets the groceries down on the kitchen island, then traces his fingertips idly over the sigils that glimmer in his Sight, focusing all his attention on the bond.

 _I’m… outside_.

Castiel raises his eyebrows at the empty kitchen. The back garden is  _his_ domain—Dean accompanies Castiel out there when he’s needed, if there’s a particular spell that he needs his familiar for or if he just feels like dozing in the sun while Castiel cares for his plants, but he rarely goes out there on his own.

_Why?_

This time, Dean remains resolutely silent. Try as he might, though, he can’t close off all of his emotions while Castiel is peering into their bond this closely. There’s… excitement, and nervousness, and again, that feeling of hiding something.

Castiel will have to get to the bottom of this.

He leaves the groceries where they are and makes his way to the back door. What could Dean be up to in the garden that has him being so secretive? As a familiar, he’s never been interested in the witch’s side of the equation, past a curiosity that stems more from his love for Cas than any kind of desire to learn the art.

When Castiel steps out onto the deck, he’s faced with a sheepish-looking German Shepherd and a series of holes dug into the grass of his carefully cultivated garden.

 _You’d better have a good reason for digging up my lawn, Dean_ , Castiel warns. Thankfully, none of his invaluable plants seem to have been damaged, and he fights the compulsion to go and check on each one of them. Dean wouldn’t have been that careless.

Dean shifts on his paws, and then there’s a quick swirl of light, and suddenly Castiel is faced with his very human, very  _naked_ familiar. He still has dirt on his hands and flecked over his chest, and he tries unsuccessfully to rub some of it off onto his thighs before returning his attention to Castiel.

“Well hello to you too, babe, I had a great day, thanks for asking.” He grins and makes his way up onto the deck, then turns to survey his handiwork. “And yes, you grump, I had a very good reason. Wish you had’ve come home once I’d actually filled in the holes though,” he muses, his hands on his hips. “Gotta admit, it doesn’t look great right now.”

No, it doesn’t. Castiel is very particular about his garden, since it’s so important to his power and his practice, so to be faced with such an upset to his carefully cultivated balance is a little confronting, to say the least.

“No, it doesn’t,” he agrees. “Want to share the reason, or are you going to keep being all secretive?” He prods Dean pointedly through the bond, and can’t help but smile when Dean pokes his tongue out in response.

Instead of saying anything, though, Dean steps close, puts his hands on Castiel’s hips, and slowly turns him around.

On the deck in front of Castiel is a small cluster of potted plants. He recognizes them immediately—the purple leaves of one, the faintly glowing flowers of another. “Dean…” He pushes his shock and gratitude through their bond, not knowing what to say.

Dean wraps his arms around Castiel’s waist and presses his chest against the witch’s back. “I know you’d been wanting these for ages,” he murmurs, lips brushing against Castiel’s neck. “I pulled some strings to get a hold of them—a friend of Sam’s knows someone, yadda yadda. I’d hoped you’d get home once I’d actually had a chance to plant them, but it’s probably best I left that to you.” He shifts his dirt-covered hands against Castiel’s stomach, and his amusement resonates through their bond. “You’re the expert, after all. So, uh… happy anniversary, babe.”

Dean had gone to all this effort for him? Castiel turns in Dean’s hold and winds his arms around his boyfriend’s shoulders, struck dumb and overwhelmed by the gesture. “I had a fancy dinner planned out, but I think you beat me,” he admits with a sheepish smile. “Thank you, Dean. Happy anniversary. I love you so much.”

“Love you too, Cas,” Dean whispers, and Castiel pulls him in for a kiss, their bond resonating with affection and love and gratitude and every emotion that Castiel could never hope to put into words, but that doesn’t matter. 

Dean knows.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/178002790944/for-migglangelus-3-castiel-comes-home-to-an).


	11. Captured spy Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean resolutely refuses to give up his information, and holds out for the cavalry to arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: canon-typical violence

Metal digs into Dean’s wrists, cold and cruel. The room he’s in smells of mildew, and is lit only by a single dim, flickering bulb suspended on a wire. It illuminates the man in front of him—the sharpness of his suit, the cut of his jaw, the cold, unfeeling expression in his eyes. He stands tall and square and imposing, but Dean isn’t scared. He doesn’t react. Just watches.

“You are Dean Winchester, correct?”

Dean doesn’t reply.

The man scowls, then pulls Dean’s battered, well-worn wallet from inside his suit jacket. It’s his real one, with his real ID, not any of the numerous fake identities he has stashed away at home. He was stupid to let his guard down even for a second, considering what he’s been through in the past.

It had just been a quick walk to the shops to get milk.

“Your driver’s license says that your name is Dean Winchester,” the man says, brandishing Dean’s license between his fingers. “And your face matches up with the man who was working alongside the vice-president of my company as a liaison. Awfully convenient that you disappeared just as huge amounts of fraudulent records were released to the public. Care to explain that?”

Dean just smirks. As if this motherfucker is going to get any information out of him like this. He’s too damn well-trained and too loyal to spill so easily.

The sharp-suited man doesn’t seem to appreciate Dean’s silence. He clenches his fist until the laminated edges of Dean’s driver’s license cut into his hand, then drops it onto the floor along with Dean’s wallet. A perfectly-shined shoe grinds it into the ground, and for a second, a fleeting dash of anger wells up inside of Dean. He’d _liked_ that wallet. It had been a gift, and it had been _his_ , not something belonging to a costume or a persona.

“I’ll get the answers out of you one way or another, Winchester,” the man threatens. “One way or another.”

He paces towards Dean, then around him, out of Dean’s field of vision. Dean doesn’t turn his head to look, just stares up at the hanging, dusty lightbulb until sunspots dance in his vision.

“Who are you working for?” the man asks, in a low whisper by Dean’s left ear. “The police? FBI? A competitor?”

Again, Dean doesn’t react. He’s too well trained to do something as stupid as spilling federal secrets at the first sign of danger. Besides, it’s not like he’s going to be here long.

His captor makes a sound of frustration, then steps back in front of Dean. “Last chance to tell me before things start to get painful.”

Dean meets his gaze, then quietly mutters something under his breath.

“What was that?” The man leans forward, too eagerly, too stupidly.

He doesn’t have time to pull back before Dean spits in his face, then smirks, sharp and savage. “I said, _asshole_ , ‘go fuck yourself.’”

Spit drips from the man’s chin as he slowly turns red with rage, until he’s almost vibrating with it. He pulls out a monogrammed handkerchief and wipes his face clean, then drops it on the ground. “You’ll regret that,” he snarls.

Dean’s sure he will eventually—but it had felt so satisfying in the moment that now he simply smirks.

The first blow lands on his ribs, and Dean clenches his jaw, staring silently up at that dusty, flickering lightbulb.

~~~ 

Dean aches.

He aches from his head all the way down to his toes, every single part of him bruised, bleeding, throbbing with pain. He’s not sure how long he’s been here, in this small, badly ventilated, dimly lit room. Not too long yet.

His stomach cramps again, and he closes his eyes against the new, different pain, but still doesn’t make a sound. His captors only give him enough water to keep him alive, to be able to speak if he so wished (he doesn’t). They haven’t been so generous with food.

The metal shackles chafe against his wrists now, rubbing at the already-raw skin. Every time he slumps, every time he places his weight fully on the chain suspending him from the ceiling, they bite in a little deeper, wrench his shoulders a little more.

Every single part of Dean aches, but he still doesn’t utter a single sound.

He still has time. Any minute now.

He’s dozing in his shackles when the door swings open once more, then slams closed. The lightbulb, when Dean opens his eyes, swings gently back and forth with the force of it.

“You’re a thorn in my fucking side, Winchester.” His torturer isn’t dressed so nicely today. There’s dust on his shoes, his tie is askew, and his hair isn’t quite so immaculately groomed. He’s reaching the end of his patience with Dean and his never-ending silence. “You brought down my whole goddamn company. I should have killed you from the outset, but I gave you a chance. Give me information on your employer, and I’ll let you go. I know it’s not you who orchestrated all this.”

His lip twitches, his nostrils flare. He’s lying. If he gets his way, the only way Dean will be leaving here is in a bodybag. Still, he’s not scared. He lifts his chin and stares the man straight in the eyes, not wavering, not looking away.

It’s a dare.

_I know you’re lying._

The man takes an unconscious half-step back, then sets his jaw. “If that’s the way you want it.”

This beating hurts more than any Dean has taken so far. His captor is angry, _furious_ at being denied. It must not happen very often, and while his petulant frustration would be fucking funny at any other time, right now it hurts down to the very core of Dean’s being.

He shuts down, tries to dissociate himself from his body, but he still feels every kick, every punch. He feels when the brass knuckles are added into the equation, and he feels his whole body being set on fire when the man presses a taser against Dean’s ribs, his spine, his stomach.

He doesn’t scream. Doesn’t open his eyes, not until the very last blow has fallen.

The man is panting hard now. He looks unkempt, his jacket shed, tie loosened, gelled hair a mess. He drops the taser to the floor and unholsters his pistol. “I’ve had enough of you, you smug little _fuck_. I hope protecting your employer was worth the cost of your life.”

Close by in the building, Dean hears shouting, gunshots. His captor seems too erratic, too focused on Dean, to have heard it, and it gives Dean hope. Even staring at the gun in the man’s hand, he knows (prays) that everything is going to be okay.

“Any last words, Winchester?” The gun is lifted, the barrel pointing straight at Dean’s head. The man’s fingers flex around the grip of the pistol, and he smiles, unhinged.

Dean considers for a moment, then spits a mouthful of blood onto the ground. When he grins, his teeth are stained red, macabre and unsettling. The man flinches back slightly—does he suspect? Does he wonder why Dean is still so calm, even while he’s staring down the barrel of a gun?

“My husband is going to be so _pissed_ when he finds out what you’ve done to me.”

His voice is nothing but a weak rasp, but it’s enough.

The man’s eyes widen, but it’s too late. The door to the room slams open behind him, and Dean closes his eyes against the bright flashlights that sear into his vision. Two gunshots go off in quick succession, a bullet whizzes past Dean’s ribs, and then there’s the thud of something heavy hitting the floor.

Gentle hands cup Dean’s face, and he opens his eyes weakly to see _blue_.

“You took your time, babe,” Dean quips in his rasping, unused voice. “Talk about down to the wire.”

Castiel presses a quick kiss to his forehead, then reaches up to unlock Dean’s shackles. This close, Dean can smell his sweat and cologne, and aches to be close to his husband. Now that the need to be brave and cocky has worn off, and Cas is here, he can feel his body starting to shake with fatigue and trauma.

Cas notices, and is quick to unlock Dean’s wrists, carefully catching him when he’s released from the ceiling like a marionette with its strings cut. Dean’s whole body screams with the new position, blood rushing back into his arms.

He clings weakly to his husband, who holds him close and supports him, pressing a gentle kiss to hair matted with blood and sweat. “How many times have I told you to be careful?” he whispers, his hand cradling the back of Dean’s head. He’s warm and solid and smells like home. Like love. “You scared me so much. I almost didn’t make it in time."

“You know me,” Dean jokes, but his voice is wobbly. “I like to live dangerously.”

Despite all his bravado, though, he clings to Cas like a life raft. The fingers of his left hand curl weakly against Cas’s bulletproof FBI vest, and for the first time in what must be days, he sees the grimy gold of his wedding ring.

His husband is here. Cas is here. He’s safe.

“I trusted you,” he whispers.

Cas makes a quiet, muffled sound against Dean’s hair that almost sounds like a sob. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

Cas insists on carrying Dean out of the building to where the cars are parked outside. They pass numerous other officers detaining the remaining guards on their way out of the building, until Cas pushes open one last door and all of a sudden they’re stepping out into the sunlight.

Dean takes his first breath of fresh air.

“Love you,” he whispers to Cas, and his husband smiles softly. He looks so handsome, his eyes bluer than Dean remembers and so full of emotion.

“I love you too,” he says, and Dean pulls him in with a weak grip on his collar for a kiss.

Maybe it’s time for him to retire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/178935597634/for-amirosebookss-prompt-of-a-beaten-badass).


	12. Short and canon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of short canon ficlets.
> 
> 1: T-shirt. 2: Stitches. 3: Fallen Cas. 4: Stars. 5: Motel.

1.

The first morning after is… nothing like Dean had expected.

He’s been friends— _just_ friends—with Cas for so long that being _together_ feels like it should be weird. Different. But apart from the touching and the kissing (and the fucking _mindblowing_ sex), it’s… not.

He’s shared a bed with Cas before, but this time it was without the barrier of pillows down the middle, Cas’s warm body pressed close and an arm wrapped around his waist. He’s been close with Cas before—because hello, _personal space_ , even though that protest had quickly become hollow—but it’s different with Cas’s hands on him, Cas’s mouth on his.

He’s even had Cas cook breakfast for him, after he’s too banged up from a hunt to feel like putting effort into food, and instead directed from his chair at the dining table.

But this… this scene is new.

“Is that my shirt?” he asks from the kitchen doorway.

Cas is barefoot against the kitchen floor, the heating in the bunker cranked up just how Dean likes it when Sam’s away on a solo hunt or off doing research. He’s only wearing a pair of boxers (which also might be Dean’s, now that he looks closer), and a Zeppelin t-shirt that Dean does not remember picking up for him at any thrift store.

All in all, combined with the smell of eggs and bacon in the air and the way Cas is squinting down at the frying pan, it makes for a pretty damn adorable picture.

“Yes, it is,” Cas says, poking at the scrambled eggs with his spatula for a second before turning to look after his shoulder at Dean. His expression is soft, and a little shy, and it makes Dean’s heart melt. “I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t particularly feel like returning to my own room to dress, and your clothes are…” He trails off, and turns back to the stove, idly pushing around the eggs. “I like them,” he finishes simply.

How had they danced around each other for so many years, when Dean could have been living this life with Cas? He crosses the kitchen and wraps his arms around his boyfriend—he can _say_ that now. “I don’t mind you wearing my clothes, Cas.” There’s a teasing tone to his words as he adds, “I like you almost as much in my clothes as I do when you’re not wearing anything it all.”

Cas turns his head and raises his eyebrow, but the corner of his mouth twitches up into a smile. “At least wait until after we’ve had breakfast, Dean. What’s the expression? ‘Keep it in your pants?’”

There’s no way that Dean could even hope to control the laugh that bubbles up out of him. _This_ —standing here with Cas, dressed in each other’s clothes and making breakfast together in the perfect domestic picture… 

This is the life that Dean had never thought he would get to have.

 

2.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Dean winces as he shifts on the bed, turning more towards Castiel. The wound in his arm is still bleeding sluggishly, and Castiel presses the alcohol-soaked gauze back against it.

“Yes, I know what I’m doing. I’ve seen you and Sam do this a hundred times.”

With Sam barely in better condition than Dean and currently deep in an exhausted sleep on the other bed, however, Castiel is left with the job of sewing Dean up. It can’t be that hard, even if Castiel has always been reliant on his grace for these things. His hand doesn’t shake as he adjusts his supplies, moving the needle and thread into a better position on the little nightstand he’s pulled in close. He may not have his grace any more, but after millennia spent as a soldier, he knows how to lock away his nerves and focus on the task at hand.

It does help that he did put this body back together with his own two hands, after all.

“How is it feeling?” he asks as he pulls the gauze away once again. It’s patched with red, but the bleeding finally seems to have slowed.

Dean lets out a long breath. “Fuckin’ hurts. Just sew me up and get it over with.”

The gauze is dropped onto the nightstand, and Castiel grabs the needle and thread, sterilizing it all with alcohol one more time. “This is going to hurt,” he warns quietly. He doesn’t like causing Dean any pain, not even to help him.

“’M fine,” Dean grunts—but the way his hand curls into a fist against his thigh when Castiel sinks the needle into his skin betrays him.

Castiel tries to work quickly, bringing together the two edges of the wound. It’s not too hard, especially when he thinks back to all the times he’s seen Sam and Dean stitch each other up, but the sooner he can relieve Dean’s pain, the better. Not for the first time, he curses his lack of grace. Stupid human body.

“All done,” he says once he’s finished, tying the knot and cutting the ends of the thread. Dean cranes his neck to look to look at his upper arm, and lets out a soft sound of approval. His hand uncurls, fingers splaying over denim.

“Huh. I guess I shouldn’ta doubted you.” He smiles, slow and tired. “Thanks, babe.”

Dean pulls Castiel in by the front of his shirt for a kiss. It’s gentle and soft and speaks magnitudes beyond the simple ‘thanks’ that Dean had given him. He still isn’t used to how much he can _feel_ like this—without his grace, he may not be able to see Dean’s soul, but everything _physical_ is so heightened that he doesn’t understand how humans can live like this without overloading for the intensity of it all.

He feels Dean smile against his lips and suddenly, Castiel isn’t so averse to his ‘stupid human body’ after all.

 

3. 

Throughout Castiel’s whole life, his many millennia of existence, he has been afraid of falling. An angel’s grace, their wings, is what gives them their worth, and without that, an angel is nothing.

When Castiel finally falls… it’s not terrifying. It’s not the end of the world. Life goes on.

But it _hurts_.

It hurts like an ache inside him, a visceral part of himself that he doesn’t know how to live without. It feels like losing a limb, memory, a loved one. It feels like losing his mind.

When Castiel finally falls, he doesn’t know how he will cope.

He should have expected that he would find the answer in the very man he gave it all up for.

Dean is endlessly patient. Whenever Castiel has a question, or makes a mistake, or just completely shuts down, he’s always there. Even if he doesn’t always have the answer or know how to help, he never leaves Castiel’s side, and that’s what gets Castiel through when he feels like he’s lost everything he’s ever known.

Dean teaches him how to be human, but he does more than that.

They share their first kiss in the kitchen while Dean is making breakfast one morning, and from then on, Dean teaches him about _love_. Real love, raw and visceral and so strong sometimes that it feels like it might tear him apart. With Dean’s love, and his support, Castiel slowly comes to terms with what it is to be _human_.

Sometimes, though…

Sometimes he can’t.

Sometimes he feels the ache of what he’s lost too intensely, is so consumed by grief at the loss of his grace, his wings, his family, that he can’t _be_ human. The ceaseless barrage of thoughts and emotions is overwhelming, and the one thing that can calm him is Dean.

“I know it hurts,” he whispers against Castiel’s hair one night, when they’re lying in his bed, pressed together so closely that they’re almost like one being. “I’m so sorry, Cas. I’m so sorry you gave everything up for… for me.”

Castiel finds his hand beneath the covers and squeezes his fingers—it may be all he can bring himself to do right now, but the meaning is there. “Don’t be sorry,” he says quietly. Dean has nothing to be sorry for.

Castiel, angel of the Lord, fell from grace for one single human.

But despite everything, despite his loss and his grief and all his regrets…

He would always, _always_ have made the same decision.

 

4.

Castiel sits on the hood of the Impala and watches the stars.

On clear, cloudless summer nights like this, it’s hard not to be torn. On one hand, it’s a beautiful evening: the sun has just disappeared below the horizon, and the stars are beginning to come out, pinpricks against the deepest indigo. The air is warm, crickets chirp softly to each other in the distance, and the occasional firefly light flickers around the forest’s edge.

And yet…

Every time he looks up at the stars, he can’t help but think of that night. Watching his brothers and sisters fall to earth in every direction, so many incandescent meteors plunging from the sky. _What an unexpected and unprecedented global meteor shower_ , the newscasters had said.

Castiel knows better. Castiel is the one who had to watch the angels fall from Heaven, their wings burning up behind them like the tail of a comet, stripping them of all they have ever known and banishing them from their home.

Even the memory of it makes him feel sick.

A shooting star streaks across the sky, and Castiel’s eyes track it for the few seconds of its life until it disappears, until—

“Cas! Didja see that?”

Castiel forces a smile onto his lips and turns his head towards Dean, who holds a beer in each hand but has paused in his tracks, eyes turned up towards the sky and face alight with childlike wonder. It’s so rare that he gets to see the hunter like this, truly happy about something. His forced smile softens into something real.

“Yes, Dean,” he says softly, shifting over on the hood to make room for his friend. “Did you make a wish?”

Dean turns his gaze back to Castiel and grins, and Castiel can’t remember the last time he saw that brightness in his eyes. “Of course.”

Dean hands him a beer and gently hops up onto the hood beside him, twisting the cap off his own bottle. “Can’t tell you what it is, though, or it won’t come true,” he says with a sidelong glance and a secretive smile.

It’s so easy to get lost in that look, in this moment that is just the two of them, drinking beers on the hood of the Impala and watching the stars. It’s a look that says, _this secret? This is just for us._

God, if it isn’t totally captivating. Castiel is lost to it.

He wets his lips and looks away, back up to the stars that remind him so much of that tragic night. He’s here because Dean had wanted to him come, and because this is making him happy, and in the end, that’s all that matters to Castiel.

 _Dean_ is all that matters to Castiel.

 

5.

Dean sits alone in a motel room somewhere in New Mexico and stares at his hands.

The knuckles are scraped and bloody, there’s dirt caked under his fingernails, and the shovel-made blisters on his palm feel hot and angry. They’re worker’s hands. Hunter’s hands.

Killer’s hands.

He’s hunted many monsters in all the years he’s been alive, and they’re just that: monsters. But still, every one leaves a stain on his hands and on his soul, and sometimes that weight is too much to bear. He aches, deep inside, and it’s an ache that only fades but never disappears because _this_ is his life.

The choice of becoming a hunter was never a choice, but a burden bestowed upon him by his father.

Dean rubs his hands together slowly, touches the callouses that have built up over years of hard work, then reaches up to curl his fingers around the amulet that hangs around his neck. A gift given, a lifeline, a grounding rod. He touches it and he closes his eyes and he thinks:

_I need you._

It only takes a few seconds for the room to shift in a crackle of electricity and the taste of ozone and oncoming rain across Dean’s tongue. When he opens his eyes, it’s to a trenchcoated figure standing in front of the window and silhouetted by the ambient streetlights and the moon.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey Cas.” Dean’s voice cracks, and he clears his throat, dropping his hand from his amulet. His killer’s hands rest loosely in his lap. “Sorry, I’m, um. Having a bad night.”

Castiel crosses the room wordlessly to sit on the bed beside Dean. This close, the angel radiates warmth, even through the layers of clothing separating them. Dean leans against him—tentatively at first, then more solidly when Cas stays put.

“You’re not a bad man, Dean,” Cas says quietly, as though he can see the exact thoughts that fester in Dean’s mind. Perhaps he can. “Your soul is pure and bright and not as stained as you believe. Did I not believe that you were worth lo— _saving_ , I would not be here.”

Short and simple but, as always, cutting straight to the heart of what Dean is feeling. He clears his throat, feeling way more vulnerable than he’s comfortable with. “Thanks, Cas,” he whispers. “Not sure I believe that, but thanks.”

Castiel hums in the back of his throat, then reaches over and takes one of Dean’s dirty, blood-stained hands in his. Dean’s breath catches in his throat and stays there, and he watches as Cas intertwines their fingers—tan and clean against Dean’s rough, grimy skin.

When he looks back up, there’s a tiny smile curling Cas’s lips. He doesn’t say anything further, but it’s enough, and it makes Dean feel like _he’s_ enough.

He lets his fears go and leans against Cas’s shoulder, the two of them there for each other, to face whatever the future may hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show the originals some love: [T-shirt](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/179684426064/if-you-havent-gotten-this-one-already-can-you-do), [Stitches](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/179750989389/if-youre-still-doing-prompts-17), [Fallen Cas](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/179857637699/ooh-can-i-request-number-3-list-2-i-know-it), [Stars](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/180302117084/comet-d), [Motel](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/181105960369/hello-congrats-on-your-500-followers-3-heres-my).


	13. High school love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel finds himself entranced by the mysterious, leather jacket-wearing new student at his school.

There’s a new boy at Castiel’s school.

He has grass-green eyes and a leather jacket one or two sizes too big, and when he smiles, there’s an edge to it, something hidden lurking beneath, like he has a secret that no one can know. He wields his sass and his biting wit like a weapon when he wants to, but there’s a younger kid a few grades down from them who is the only person to elicit a real smile, where the protective guards fall away just enough for a glimpse at who the boy really is.

The new boy’s name is Dean Winchester, and Castiel has never met anyone like him.

They share an English class, and Dean has the desk beside Castiel’s. He reads the books, but doesn’t share his thoughts unless the teacher calls on him specifically. If it’s a book he doesn’t like, he’ll make a joke about it, but if he’s one that he enjoyed reading…

Castiel could listen to him talk about Vonnegut with passion in his voice for hours on end.

Sometimes, though, he’ll look over to see Dean scribbling in a notebook—math equations, electrical configurations, a sketch of something that looks a lot like a Walkman. He’s _smart_ , smarter than he lets on, and it only compounds Castiel’s interest in this mysterious, guarded boy.

One class, Dean catches Castiel watching him, and suddenly there are green eyes locked with his own. “Did you want something?” Dean asks, and while his tone seems light and lazy, there’s a guarded edge beneath it.

“Sorry,” Castiel says instinctively. “I was just… um…” He flounders for an excuse, and the corners of Dean’s lips lift in a smirk.

“Watchin’ me?”

He’s hit the nail on the head, and Castiel doesn’t have time to come up with a lie. “Yes,” he says quietly.

Dean is silent. Castiel can feel the weight of his gaze, but he doesn’t look up. He’s embarrassed himself enough already. The bell rings, and the students around them become a flurry of chatter and movement. Castiel quietly starts packing up his books.

“Did you want to see a movie on Friday?”

Castiel snaps his head up to find Dean still watching him—but there’s something almost… softer, about his gaze. “Yes?” he replies tentatively, not sure if this is a joke or something _real_. Still, he can’t pass up this opportunity to know Dean better. “Yes,” he says, more confidently. “I’d like to see a movie on Friday.”

Dean grins, packing his books into his bag and standing up. “Sweet. I’ll meet you there at eight. But, Cas, there’s just one condition.” The smirk is back, enough to make Castiel weak at the knees.

_Wait, how does he know my name?_

“You can’t fall in love with me.”

~~~

It’s been seven weeks. Seven weeks of bliss, of stolen kisses and holding hands in the school corridors, of lying curled up in Castiel’s bed before Dean has to sneak back to the motel. They spend every possible minute with each other, when they’re not in separate classes or Dean doesn’t have to go out and work with his dad.

It’s been seven _perfect_ weeks.

And now Dean is leaving.

He’d been clear from the start that this would happen, but it still hadn’t prepared Castiel for the way Dean’s departure would make him feel like he was being torn apart from the inside.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean whispers into the air between them. They’re tucked around the corner of the motel from where Sam and John are packing up their car. The wall against Castiel’s back is cold, but Dean’s body is warm, and Castiel clings to him.

He knows Dean doesn’t want to leave, can feel it in every kiss, every touch, the pain in his eyes and the shake in his voice.

“Please don’t go,” he begs, but he knows it’s futile. A tear slips past Dean’s lashes, and he shakes his head, giving Cas a watery smile.

“I _told_ you not to fall in love with me.”

_How could I not?_

They stay there, pressed together against the wall and trading kisses like each might be their last, until John starts hollering for Dean.

Dean has Castiel’s number in his phone, but Castiel knows there’s a good chance that this will be the last time he ever sees or hears from Dean. He pulls him in for one last desperate kiss, then slowly lets his hands slip from Dean’s jacket.

Another tear tracks down Dean’s cheek, and Castiel can see him breaking apart in front of him. “Bye, Cas,” he says quietly, and then he turns and walks away.

Castiel watches as they finish packing up the car, as Dean looks towards him one last time before climbing in, as the engine starts and the car peels out of the parking lot. 

He watches until tears blur his vision and the car has disappeared out of sight, and then he scrubs at his eyes, takes a deep breath, and turns to start the long walk home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/179768700364/uhm-uhm-61i-told-you-not-to-fall-in-love-with).
> 
> Now has two sequels: [Cas becomes an EMT](http://castielrisingabove.tumblr.com/post/181172509288/saltnhalo-i-cant-resist-it-when-someone-leaves) | [Dean shows up at Cas's apartment](http://peanutbutterjelly-pie.tumblr.com/post/181175896882/uhm-uhm-61i-told-you-not-to-fall-in-love-with)


	14. Art thief Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FBI Agent Cas has finally caught his art thief... or so he thinks.

“Please state your name for the recording.”

“Dean Michael Winchester. Born January 24, Aquarius who likes long walks on the beach, fine arts connoisseur. Nice to see you again, Novak.”

For someone who’s currently handcuffed to a table, Dean Winchester remains surprisingly cocky. Castiel scowls, double checks the recording device sitting between them, then opens his folder. “The suspect is being interviewed by Special Agent Castiel Novak, in regards to the theft of two paintings from the Metropolitan Museum of Art."

Across the table, Dean chuckles and leans back in his chair. “Lovely paintings they were, too. Whoever took them is a damn mastermind to get them out from under that much security.”

“So how did you take them, Dean?” Castiel isn’t a fool. He’s been chasing the Winchesters for years, trying to pin them to one theft after another, but he hasn’t been able to make anything stick. They always have alibis, or the evidence isn’t conclusive enough. That can almost certainly be attributed to the work of tech genius Charlie Bradbury and conman Bobby Singer, but Castiel doesn’t have enough to connect them to any of the crimes either. All he’s had in the past is a gut feeling and an insufficient amount of evidence, but now…

Now he’s got enough to lock Dean Winchester away for a long time. He just has to get him to confess.

“How did _I_ take them?” Dean hums, his cuffed hands resting flat on the table. “You seem to be jumping to conclusions there, Special Agent. I wasn’t the one who took them—but I’m flattered that you think I’m a good enough thief to get into the Met.”

It’s _almost_ evidence, a not-quite confession, but not enough to stand up in a court of law. Castiel grinds his teeth.

“I assure you, Dean, that I am not jumping to conclusions. I have evidence that places you at the Met on the night of the robbery.”

Dean watches him from across the table, those green eyes wickedly sharp, a lazy smirk curling his lips. “Cas—do you mind if I call you that? I feel like we know each other well enough by now. I hate to break it to you, but I haven’t been to the Met in over two months. Wish I could go more often, though, but work keeps me away.”  
  
“And what work is that, Dean?” His question is too sharp, too quick. Dean grins wolfishly.

“I’m a gallery curator,” he says with a wink. “You’ve been following me around to know that long enough, Special Agent. You can disbelieve it all you want, but I’ve put together enough galleries and private collections for people that you can’t really dispute that fact. It’s all legal, too, if you’d like to chase that up.”

 _Gallery curator_. Castiel knows that it’s just a front, made up to give Dean an alibi. He may be a good curator—not terrible, but not brilliant, just mediocre enough to make it believable and slip under the radar—but wherever Dean Winchester goes, famous paintings disappear.

Castiel knows how it all works, he’s got it all figured out. Dean is the thief, going into museums and making renowned pieces of art disappear. Sam Winchester and his wife Sarah Blake are the ones who get rid of it, selling it on to the highest bidder. Charlie Bradbury covers their tracks, and Bobby Singer is the conman father figure who taught the brothers everything they know.

He _knows_ how they operate. He just can’t _prove_ it, and that’s the kicker.

Especially when Dean knows that he doesn’t have enough evidence to bring him in.

“I know that your curating is all legal. The theft, however, is not. And this time, I _know_ it was you.” Castiel can’t help his smile of satisfaction as he rifles through the papers in his folder, selecting two and sliding them out onto the table. His _pièce de resistánce_.

One of the papers shows a perfect set of fingerprints on the frame of one of the stolen paintings. The other shows Dean Winchester’s fingerprints, taken when Castiel first pulled him in for questioning over a year ago.

“We found your prints at the scene.”

They’re a perfect match.

That seems to rattle Dean—his face pales, and his eyes go wide. He reaches out for the papers, but is pulled back by the handcuffs, which rattle against the table. He scowls.

“Those aren’t my prints. I don’t know how those got there, I wasn’t at the Met. I told you, I haven’t been there in months.”

“Then explain how these prints, _found at the scene of the crime_ , match yours identically? I’ve had three different forensics specialists analyze them, and they all said the same.” Castiel allows himself a moment of triumph. “How are you going to get out of this one, Dean?”

Dean looks at Castiel, his gaze cautious and guarded now. He’s cornered and he knows it, and _god_ is it the most satisfying feeling. Castiel finally has him. Dean’s gaze flicks down to the papers, then back up to Castiel, and then he sits back in the chair, his jaw set.

“I’m not saying anything else. I want to speak to my lawyer.”

 _Sam_. No, no, _no_. Dean’s lawyer, Sam Winchester, the man with the silver tongue who can talk his way out of any situation and convince anyone of anything. If he lets Dean speak with his lawyer, it’s all over.

Castiel reaches out and stops the recording.

“I know it’s you, you motherfucker,” he growls, all his frustration and anger boiling inside him. “I’ve spent years tracking you, and every single time I’ve come away empty handed, but not this time. You may have everyone else fooled into thinking you’re legit—“ He stands up, his hands pressed against the table, leaning into Dean’s personal space. “—but _I know_. I have evidence now, so you may as well give up. No matter how long it takes, or how much work I have to put into it, I _will_ see you behind bars, because I _know_ you’re a thief, and no matter good you are, I have the evidence, and I am going to _nail_ you.”

His last few words are a snarl, and he knows he’s breathing hard, but everything that he’s been bottling up has been released now, and fuck if it doesn’t feel cathartic.

Dean’s expression is unreadable. His tongue slides out over his bottom lip, and then he grins, slow and confident. “That was kind of hot,” he says, and Castiel could almost _scream_ at the unfairness of it all—how Dean _always_ manages to keep his cool, no matter what Castiel throws at him, no matter what evidence he finds.

Dean twists idly at one cuff, hooking his finger underneath and tugging at it until it presses into the skin of his wrist. “Since you so kindly stopped the recording—“ And here he leans back in his chair, all confidence and allure, and it should be a _crime_ to be that magnetic—

“I stole those other paintings. Every one that you accused me of. I’m impressed, Cas. And I _wish_ I’d stolen from the Met, but—“

Castiel lunges forward and slams the recorder back on, but he’s too late.

“—I didn’t steal those paintings. Someone set me up. Those fingerprints are too perfect, too convenient, and they _exactly_ match the ones that you have on file for me. I have a hunch as to who it might be, and trust me.” Dean chuckles and shakes his head. “You’re gonna want to catch her. _Any other thief_ ,” he says with a wink, “is small fry in comparison. Now, Cas, I’ve got information you might want, and I can help you with catching her, but…” The grin returns full force. “It’s going to come at a cost. A little cost called _immunity_.”

Motherfucker.

Castiel holds Dean’s gaze while he calculates, his jaw clenched tight in frustration. There’s every chance that Dean might be lying to him. But the fact that he’d confessed to him off the record about the other paintings, the way he’d come clean… it makes him think that maybe, _just maybe_ , he’s telling the truth.

Besides, the prints _are_ too perfect. Castiel had been willing to overlook that if it meant he’d finally see Dean behind bars, but if he’s right and there’s another, more dangerous thief in play…

 _Fuck it_.

“I’m listening,” he says.

Dean grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/179821704314/could-you-do-number-18-for-the-writing-meme).


	15. High school reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finally gets another chance with his high school crush, Castiel Novak.

Dean had almost not turned up tonight. He knows how life after high school turned out for a lot of his classmates, and for the ones he doesn’t—well, quite frankly, he just doesn’t care. There’s hardly any point in driving an two hours to the function, just to only talk to the people he actually still knows and likes.  

But then there’s the one that got away.

Castiel Novak doesn’t have Facebook, or Twitter, or anything that Dean can find (he’s tried). He draws the line at asking Charlie to dig into him using the FBI’s data, because that’s the step that turns his interest from a high school crush to a full-blown obsession. And that’s all it is, right? Just a high school crush that’s surely faded over the years.

 _The guy probably isn’t even cute any more_ , Dean tells himself as he gets another beer from the open bar. Even the ten year difference hasn’t been kind to a lot of Dean’s classmates, and Novak will probably be the same. Dean even kind of _hopes_ that the guy looks awful now, because he certainly hadn’t in high school, and holding onto that memory of a teenaged Castiel is probably the only thing still fooling his (not so) little crush.

Despite being ninety percent of the reason Dean had even come tonight, though, Novak still hasn’t shown up. In hindsight, it had been stupid of Dean to assume he would. Surely he’s got better things to do than attend a reunion with a bunch of people he probably barely even remembers.

 _Stupid, Winchester_. Dean downs half his beer in one long pull and scowls at the mingling crowd. There’s no sign of that trademark bedhead or the endearingly dorky clothes. He’s starting to give up hope.

“Dean?”

Dean jumps at the gravelly voice coming from his right, much closer than he’d expected from anyone. When he looks up, totally startled, he finds himself staring into blue eyes.

“Cas,” he chokes out, his composure well and truly rattled. Everything that he’d practiced on the drive here, every introduction and conversation that he’d played out in his head… it all goes out the window. He gapes at the man in front of him. “I… uh… You remember me?”

Fucking _hell_ , if the years hadn’t been kind to some of Dean’s classmates, they’ve done the opposite for Castiel. He’s filled out into his frame, and his skin is tanned, and his perpetual bedhead is still there, just styled a little differently, but the eyes… the eyes are just as Dean remembers.

He’s absolutely gorgeous, and Dean can’t remember how to formulate words.

“Of course I remember you, Dean.” Castiel smiles. It’s soft and radiant and melts Dean’s heart just a little bit. “We were friends… I guess. Close to friends, anyway. I’d always wondered what happened to you after high school.”

“Me too,” Dean admits. “I mean—you, not me, I—I’d wondered what _you_ were up to.” His words trip over themselves, and he mentally kicks himself. What is it about this guy that makes Dean so damn tongue-tied? It’s been ten years, and he’s still not over it. No one else has ever been able to make him feel this way.

Castiel chuckles kindly at Dean’s small freak-out. “I know what you mean, Dean. It’s nice to know that you were thinking of me too.” His voice is soft, and the way he looks at Dean… it’s almost hopeful. Happy.

Tonight is Dean’s one chance, he knows that. If he lets Cas go now, without taking this chance, it’s possible that nothing will ever come of his feelings. He takes a deep breath, steels himself, and asks, “Did you want to get a drink with me?”

Cas blinks at him, then looks down at the half-finished beer in Dean’s hand with a small frown. His thought process is easy to follow, and Dean jumps in to stop it in its tracks. “Not here,” he interjects. “Beer’s kinda crappy anyway. I walked past a nice bar a few blocks back, though. I was thinking you might wanna… catch up. Just you and me.”

Realization slowly dawns on Castiel’s face, and he smiles, soft and wide and _happy_. 

“I would love to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/179910642249/103-please).


	16. Fake dating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean tags along to Cas's family gathering as his boyfriend—and the resulting aftermath.

Dean watches Cas where he’s standing against the Impala, leaning back against her and looking up at the night sky. They’ve been pretending all evening, laughing and smiling with Cas practically glued to Dean’s side, but now, out of sight of his family, his shoulders slump. He looks tired.

Still, though, with his rumpled hair and the button-down that brings out the blue of his eyes, Dean can’t keep his eyes off him.

The night sky is beautiful, but it has nothing on Cas. God, Dean is so far gone on him that it’s not funny any more.

“Thanks for coming tonight, Dean.” Cas sighs into the night air, and he closes his eyes. “My family can be a bit much, I know. You took it really well, though. I can’t thank you enough.”

And that’s the kicker, isn’t it?

Dean is hopelessly, irrevocably in love with Cas, but even though he’s spent the whole evening pretending to be Cas’s boyfriend, chatting with his parents and playing the loved up couple… it’s not real.

He was here to do Cas a favour, and now it’s done, and they can go back to being friends.

Except that Dean isn’t sure he knows how to do that any more—not when he knows how Cas’s hand feels in his, how his eyes shine when they share a private joke, how his lips and his voice shape the word ‘babe’ like attaching it to Dean is as easy as breathing.

How does he go back to living just as friends with all this new information? Now that he knows how it feels?

“It’s no problem,” he says quietly. “Anything for you.”

When Cas looks over, Dean quirks his lips up into a joking smile. He gets the feeling, though, from Castiel’s expression, that he didn’t quite manage to hide the genuine sentiment behind his words.

Cas’s brows furrow just slightly, a little crease appearing between them. It’s adorable, and the desire to kiss his best friend that’s been simmering behind his sternum the whole evening flares up again. He clears his throat and looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. Fuck, he really needs to leave before he says or does something he’ll regret.

“Dean…” Cas’s voice is quiet, tentative. “Are you okay?”

Is he okay? He’s spent the evening pretending to be Cas’s boyfriend to a family who think he’s in a committed relationship. Why they’d thought that in the first place, Dean has no idea, but he _does_ know that Cas is a stubborn motherfucker who has to have the last word every single time, so he can probably imagine.

But while Dean would never say no to helping Cas out, he may have made a mistake in letting himself pretend. It’s fucking with his head more than he’d thought it would.

He sighs. “No, not really,” he answers, in a quiet moment of vulnerability and truth.

When Castiel speaks again, his voice is wobbling, tight with some emotion that Dean can’t discern. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you to do this. I know you’re straight, and—and this is out of your comfort zone, but—“

“Pretending to be with you didn’t fuck me up because I’m straight, Cas. It fucked me up because I’m in love with you.”

It takes a few seconds for Dean’s brain to catch up with his mouth, but when it does, he sucks in a sharp breath. Oh fuck. What has he done?

He chances a look at Cas, and finds his friend staring at him with wide eyes, his mouth hanging open in shock. Sensing the imminent rejection, Dean does what he does best: avoids.

“I—I shouldn’t have said that. I have to go.” He fumbles his keys out of his jacket and moves towards the driver’s side door, but doesn’t get very far before Cas grabs his bicep and stops him in his tracks.

The next thing Dean knows, he’s being pulled back around to face Cas, and then there are lips against his own, soft and warm and more amazing than he’d ever dreamed. He makes a soft sound of surprise, then melts into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Cas’s waist and pulling him closer.

When they separate, it takes a few seconds for Dean’s brain to reboot. “Did you just—“

“Kiss you?” Cas looks as stunned as Dean feels. “I… I think I did, yeah.”

“And does that mean…”

Cas smiles gently, and he curls his fingers into the lapels of Dean’s jacket. “I think I also fucked myself up by asking you to be my fake date tonight,” he admits. “I knew it was a bad idea, but there was no-one I wanted to pretend with.” He chuckles quietly. “That, and my family genuinely thought I was dating you, considering how much I talk about you to them. I would have had to find some other guy to answer to the name ‘Dean,’ and _that_ could have been a disaster.”

Dean bursts out laughing, and Cas grins happily, then pulls him in for another kiss beneath the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/180063259079/dean-watches-cas-where-hes-standing-against-the).


	17. Yoga

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean enjoys watching Cas complete his morning exercise routine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this gifset](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/180060310132/pastrymisha-blog-romy7-boys-got-stamina).

Dean always enjoys staying the night at Cas’s place. They cook dinner together, bumping elbows in the kitchen and sneaking kisses while they wait for the food to cook, then eat together. The sex is always fucking fantastic, and Dean has come to love falling asleep with Cas’s arm wrapped around his waist and his boyfriend’s body warm and solid behind him.

But the one thing he really, _really_ loves about sleeping at Cas’s place is his morning routine.

Today is no different. Dean vaguely remembers Cas sliding out of bed, placating Dean’s sleepy pleas for him to stay in bed with kisses and whispered promises of coffee and breakfast later. Now, though, Dean is more awake, and he knows exactly where to find Cas. He rolls out of bed and stretches, then wanders out of the bedroom, not bothering with clothes.

He follows his nose to the pot of coffee waiting in the kitchen and pours himself a cup, doctoring it with a little bit of sugar. Once it’s to his liking, Dean wraps his hands around it and takes it with him to the other kitchen doorway, which leads through to Cas’s studio.

There, he leans against the doorframe, sips at his coffee, and takes in the glorious view.

When they’d started dating, Dean had tried to figure out how Cas had obtained such a fucking perfect body. He didn’t know if he could make it work with some health-obsessed guy who lived off protein shakes and went to the gym seven days a week, but it didn’t take him long to figure out that Cas was not that kind of person.

No, Cas kept his fitness up just through running…

And yoga.

But it’s not like any yoga Dean has ever seen, not at all.

In the centre of his studio, Cas braces his hands against the bare wooden floorboards of his studio. The windows behind him illuminate his body in the early morning light, and even _that_ is enough to have Dean marveling at how stunning his boyfriend is.

And then Cas lifts himself up into a handstand, all easy control and effortless grace. No matter how many times Dean watches him go through his routine, it never fails to affect him, and he grins against the rim of his coffee mug.

Cas works himself through a variety of jaw-dropping poses and positions, and despite the sweat that beads on his skin and runs down his chest, his breathing and his movements both stay slow and steady. His muscles flex as he hops from downward facing dog up into another handstand, correcting his momentum easily and straightening his legs.

Dean bites his bottom lip and tries not to think about the blood that’s currently rushing south.

He watches as Cas braces himself on his forearms and arches his body over them, how he moves from downward dog into a deep lunge with such strength and grace, how he transitions slowly and fluidly and barely shows any signs of exertion.

It’s only when Cas slowly lowers himself from a handstand until his body is completely parallel to the ground, his biceps and abs flexing, that Dean lets himself slip. A quiet groan escapes his lips, and even though he bites down on his bottom lip, he’s already been caught. A tiny quirk of Cas’s lips is the only sign that he heard Dean, who suffers in silence while Cas shifts his weight onto one palm and holds himself up like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Fucking _fuck_ , it’s not fair that his boyfriend is so goddamn hot.

It’s only a few more minutes until Cas finishes his routine, pausing for a moment on the floor before slowly getting to his feet. Sweat runs down his torso, his cheeks are flushed, and when paired with the sex hair Dean gave him last night, all in all it’s a _damn_ good look. “Get through much of your coffee this time?” Cas asks with a grin as he makes his way over to Dean.

“Yes,” Dean lies, taking a sip now that he’s been reminded that it’s there. The mug is still mostly full, and the coffee is lukewarm at best. Cas raises an eyebrow, as though he _knows_ , and Dean mutters, “Shut up.”

His boyfriend grins and presses a kiss to Dean’s cheek, then trails his lips along Dean’s jaw and up to his ear. “Care to join me in the shower?” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that makes Dean shiver.

Apparently Dean isn’t the only one turned on by the yoga. He groans quietly and bites his lip. “Sounds good to me. Maybe you can put some of that strength to good use.”

“Maybe I can,” Cas agrees, biting gently at the bolt of Dean’s jaw before moving past him and heading in the direction of the bathroom. Dean takes the opportunity to just watch him go for a few more seconds, eyes on the muscles of his back and his gorgeous ass, then sets his coffee mug aside on the kitchen counter and follows.

God, he _really_ loves Cas’s yoga.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/180084500394/saltnhalo-inspired-by-these-yoga-gifs-i-highly).


	18. Baking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas bakes pie, and Dean is relegated to the lounge room.

Dean can’t focus.

He’s sitting on the couch in the living room, a book half-open in his lap, but with the heavenly aroma that lingers in the air and is constantly distracting him, it’s been very difficult to actually concentrate on any of the words on the page.

Cas had banished him out here for a reason—“It’s impossible to work with you hovering around me, Dean”—and now he just has to wait. He opens his book again and tries to block out the smell.

It works for a few minutes, until he hears footsteps coming from the kitchen, and the unmistakable sound of the oven opening. He’s on high alert once again, and the smell only gets more intense and more mouthwatering. Ignoring the threats of dismemberment and sleeping on the couch that he’d been warned with earlier, Dean sets his book aside and tiptoes up to the doorway.

In the kitchen, Cas is holding a perfectly baked pie between his mitt-covered hands. He bumps the oven door closed with his hip, then turns to set the pie on the counter, and—

That’s when he spots Dean.

“Out,” he says, his expression exasperated but fond. “It needs to cool, Dean. You’re a menace.”

“You sure I can’t try it now?” Dean asks from where he’s leaning against the doorframe, half joking and half serious. It smells so fucking good.

“Only if you want your tongue burnt off.”

Okay, maybe Dean isn’t gonna take that risk.

He slinks back to the living room and listens while Cas moves around the kitchen, cleaning up his workspace. There’s no way he could even try to read more, not when he _knows_ what’s waiting for him in the other room.

It feels like an age before Cas calls, “Alright, Dean, come here.”

Dean is up like a shot and in the kitchen in seconds. Cas just laughs, his hip propped against the counter and arms folded against his chest. “At least I know how to bribe you,” he muses, a smile curling his lips. “I gather that you’d like to try my first prototype?”

“What kinda question is that?”

Dean watches eagerly as Cas cuts them each a slice of pie, still blissfully warm. It takes all his self-control to take a small forkful instead of eating half of it in one go like he really wants to, but as soon as the pie touches his tongue, he’s lost.

“Oh my god,” he says around his mouthful. His eyes slide closed and he groans in bliss, and he can _hear_ Cas trying to stifle his laughter, but he doesn’t fucking care. “Cas, this is _amazing_. Honestly, I don’t know anyone else who can make me feel this way.”

“What, give you a pie-induced orgasm?” Cas quips, and Dean slits one eye open to see that his boyfriend is grinning. “Really, though, Dean, I’m glad you like it—although I get the feeling that you’d like any pie I put in front of you.”

“You’re probably right,” Dean admits with a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/180099571349/hello-hello-yes-103-would-be-very-great-and).


	19. Nude model

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean models for Cas's art class.

Castiel has never experienced a painting class quite like this one.

Not because of the nude model—he’s seen and painted enough nude bodies that that’s no longer anything that distracts him or makes him uncomfortable.

No, it’s different because of the model himself.

When the man had walked in, Castiel had immediately picked up on his air of uncertainty. All of the people who model for them are beautiful to Castiel, beautiful in their bodies and in their confidence. But this guy, while he’s easily one of the most stunning men Castiel has ever seen…

He doesn’t seem to know it.

He makes self-deprecating jokes, and his cheeks burn pink when he disappears to get undressed and comes back wearing a fluffy blue robe. At one point, he mentions taking this job for the money alone. He never meets anyone’s eyes for more than a few seconds, and once he’s naked and posed on the stool, he stares resolutely down at the ground.

He’s _entrancing_. Castiel wants to know more.

The beautiful man is so distracting that Castiel almost forgets to paint. He’s so busy just watching him; cataloguing every freckle, the way the studio lights turn his hair a blondish-brown, the tense way he holds himself. If only he would _relax_ , Castiel is sure that he would burn so brightly that no-one in this room would be capable of capturing it.

Before he realizes, the hour is almost up, and Castiel has nothing but a handful of brushstrokes to show for it. He knows that there’s no way he could do this man justice, but he hastily adds more so that he can at least pretend that it’s finished. Dark strokes wrap around the man’s body, defined in messy lines, and his green eyes stand out against it all.

The man is quick to pull his robe back on once they’re finished. Castiel’s fellow students pack up their canvases and hand them in to their teacher, then leave in twos and threes.

Castiel stares at his painting, cataloguing every single deficiency until he can’t look at it any more. He shouldn’t torture himself over it—not even the best artists in the world could capture this man’s image.

When he looks up, the man is watching him, perched on the stool and with his robe wrapped around him.

His eyes dart away as soon as Castiel catches him, and he quickly stands. “Sorry. I. Um. You looked so entranced by your painting, is all. I’ll get out of your way.”

Castiel looks at it again, then back at the man. “I was distracted by it because there’s no way I could ever properly paint you and do you justice,” he points out. “Not just your image, but… all of you.”

Castiel’s words seem to stop the man in his tracks. He blinks, then gives a small, embarrassed chuckle. “Me?” he says, then shakes his head. “I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“I just wanted to let you know that I think you’re beautiful,” Castiel says with a small shrug and a reassuring smile. That’s all he can do, though—it’s not up to him as to whether this man accepts it, now or ever.

He stands and starts packing up his things, hyperaware of the fact that the man is still hovering in the centre of the space, like he’s not sure what to do.

“What’s your name?” the guy asks after a few seconds.

When Castiel looks up he finds himself trapped in so much green.

“Castiel.”

“I’m Dean.” The man smiles, and it’s the most genuine one Castiel has seen on him so far, even if his cheeks are still tinged with a blush. “I, uh… I was wondering if you maybe wanted to get coffee with me? I’m not sure about the protocol of hanging out with the same guy you just painted in the nude—or if you even _want_ to hang out with me, it’s fine if you don’t, but—“

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel interrupts, before Dean can talk himself out of the idea. “I would love to get coffee with you.”

This time, when Dean smiles, it’s even more radiant than the sun itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/180131650119/for-the-prompt-35-i-just-wanted-to-let-you-know).


	20. Angel Dean/Demon Cas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean traps Cas in a devil's trap and demands some answers.

Flickering candles light the room, and Dean has to be careful of where he’s putting his wings as he finishes the last of the sigils and traces out his trap on warped floorboards. This abandoned house is far enough from the nearest town that no matter what happens tonight, they will not be disturbed.

He sits back on his heels and assesses his work, then nods decisively. It’s time for some answers.

The spell he uses now is one he’s become intimately familiar with, his lips shaping each syllable without really thinking. The cadence of his words rises, falls, crescendos—

And then he blinks, and there’s a figure standing in the middle of the trap.

The smell of sulfur curls into the room.

“What the fuck?” The man turns, his lips twisted into a snarl, but as soon as he sees Dean, he stops. His eyes go wide. His scowl disappears.

For a few long moments, they watch each other silently. Dean fights the urge to curl his wings beneath the demon’s gaze—so _exposing_ , reaching straight past every single one of his defenses to the truth beneath. Instead, he stands tall, his wings held neutrally.

The demon is the first to speak. “Dean…” he says, and his voice is wary. He looks down at the perfectly drawn devil’s trap surrounding him. “Why am I here?”

Despite his self-control, Dean’s wings twitch. “You know why, Cas,” he says quietly.

Before his eyes, Cas’s expression shutters, and he closes off. “I told you. We’re done. You can’t summon me like this, it’s dangerous.”

Hearing Cas say that had hurt the first time, and it’s no less painful the second. Dean clenches his teeth and forces himself to calm. “I just want to talk.” And it’s the truth. He knows that Cas knows that. All he wants is to make himself heard, and he’s had time to think about what he wants to say since the night Cas left him.

But where does he start?

Cas shifts beneath his gaze. His eyes flicker to black, then back to blue. “Don’t look at me like that.”

It throws Dean for a second. All his prepared speeches fall apart like dust. “Like what?”

“Like you…” The demon sucks in a breath between his teeth. “Like you _miss_ me. Like this is all something bigger for you.”

 _It is_.

“Cas, I—“ he starts, but Cas cuts him off, his words bitter and sharp enough to slice through Dean’s heart.

“I _told_ you not to fall in love with me.”

It was only supposed to be a fling. A hate-fuck. An angel and a demon are too different for anything else to work, and yet… Dean knows what he feels. At least, he _thinks_ he does.

But apparently, from Cas’s cold eyes and the sneer on his face, those feelings are not reciprocated.

“Please, Cas,” Dean breathes, and—he might be imagining it, but the demon’s unfeeling expression seems to waver. His mouth pulls downward for a fraction of a second, and his eyes look… sad. “Please just hear me out.”

And then, as quickly as it had wavered, that unfeeling mask slides back into place.

“We’re never going to work. Yes, the sex was great, but if the higher-ups in Hell find out about it, you’ll be their biggest target. _Especially_ if they think that… that you’re in love with me.” His hands curl into fists by his sides. His voice wobbles minutely when he says, “It could _never_ work, Dean.”

 _Never_.

Dean thinks he understands now.

“Are you trying to convince me,” he whispers softly, his wings stretching out towards the confined demon, “or yourself?”

Even Dean is right with his hunch—and he’s sure that he is—it’s the wrong thing to say. He can only watch helplessly as Cas’s walls go back up in a second, and he bares his teeth.

“Fuck you,” he snarls. “Let me go. I’m done talking about this.” His eyes flicker to black and stay there, pinning the angel with a dark, blank gaze. He radiates hostility, and Dean knows that he’s ruined his chance tonight.

“This isn’t the last you’re going to see of me,” Dean promises, stepping right up to the edge of the devil’s trap. His wings flare out around the edge of it, his flight feathers curling in towards Cas. “I know it wasn’t ‘just sex’ for you either. I’m never going to stop trying.” Tonight, however, is not a battle he can win.

He kneels down at the edge of the trap and materializes his blade, slicing through the edge of the trap and breaking its power.

When he looks back up, Cas is already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/180193890719/99-61-for-the-prompts-thingy).


	21. Suspension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas ties Dean up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: non-explicit bondage.

Castiel’s studio is one of his favourite places to be.

He has a myriad of reasons for his preference; he singlehandedly set up the space, with its bare hardwood floors and strong ceiling beams and the natural light that spills in through high-set windows. It’s one of the few places that is truly quiet and private, since he and Dean are the only people with keys.

But most of all, being in his studio always means perfect, intimate, uninterrupted time with Dean, and today is no different.

He has a plan for today, and he’s checked and double-checked all of his equipment. Now he’s just waiting on Dean.

His boyfriend shows up not long after, with a bounce in his step and a radiant smile on his face. Dean looks forward to these days as much as Castiel does, and he suspects that Dean sometimes leaves work as early as he can get away with so he doesn’t have to wait.

Castiel doesn’t plan on making him wait much longer.

Dean throws his bag into the nearest corner and starts stripping off while Castiel adjusts the last of his lights and lays out his ropes just how he likes them. He can already see his design coming together in his mind’s eye, but once he can realize it on Dean’s body, he knows it will take on another life entirely.

Dean steps into the circle of lights, beneath the sturdy beam that Castiel installed with his own hands just after he’d bought the studio, and grins at Cas. There’s excited energy radiating from him, and it’s Castiel’s job to redirect it, to turn it inwards and use it to create something beautiful.

“Ready?” he asks, and Dean nods.

The first rope touches Dean’s skin, and his breath hitches gently. When Castiel ties his first knot, then tugs gently on it to test the tightness, Dean makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. With every knot tied and every rope added, Dean slips further and further under. By the time Castiel is halfway through enacting his vision, Dean’s limbs are relaxed, his eyes closed, breathing calm and even.

Castiel could never, ever tire of watching Dean slip into this headspace. It never fails to take his breath away.

Eventually, he finishes the ties, and steadies Dean with a gentle graze of fingertips over his flank. His boyfriend shivers, tongue darting out to wet his lips, and then Castiel keeps working.

It takes a little more time to fully suspend Dean from the network of ropes that Castiel has tied around his body. He moves slowly and checks in with Dean in quiet tones, until finally, everything is perfect.

Dean is completely suspended, the rope almost embracing him like a caress where he’s floating in midair. It accentuates every arch and line of his body perfectly, and his green eyes are glazed, half-closed, his lips gently parted. He looks _peaceful_.

Castiel’s rope and his hands are Dean’s entire universe right now, and the trust that Dean places in him to fall so deeply into that headspace never fails to make Castiel feel like the most powerful and the most humbled man on the planet.

He can’t leave Dean suspended for too long, though, and after a few minutes he forces himself to step back and grab his camera. A couple of the lights require adjusting, and then he lifts his camera to his face and begins to photograph. Some of these prints will sell beautifully, but some Castiel will selfishly keep for himself—the ones that are too raw, too intimate to give away.

Satisfied with the shots he has, Castiel sets his camera aside and lets Dean quietly exist in the ropes for a few more minutes, then sets about bringing him back down. Untying the knots is just as lengthy a process as tying them had been, and he makes sure to provide Dean with as much physical contact as he can while he gently strips away the support.

Eventually, Dean is bare once more, with only the indentations of rope left against his freckled skin. Castiel holds him close and rubs his back as his boyfriend slowly surfaces from his headspace.

“That felt amazing,” Dean mumbles drowsily, and Castiel smiles.

“Thank you for trusting me, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/180228597759/hi-congrats-on-your-follower-milestone).


	22. Bar pining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is perpetually done with his obtuse brother.

After dropping by their motel room to clean up, Sam makes the executive decision to go out and find the nearest bar. It’s been a long day, and he’s done enough digging, salting and burning to last a lifetime. All he wants to do is sink a few beers, play a bit of pool, then go back to his shitty motel bed and sleep for a week.

It seems like Dean and Castiel feel the same way, if their eagerness to join him had been any indication. Not that Cas really feels the effect of alcohol, but, well. He tags along for other reasons.

Further down the bar from where Sam is sitting, Dean is nursing a glass of cheap whiskey and grinning charmingly at the bartender. She’s definitely into Dean, from the way her cleavage is angled and the batting of her lashes. She smiles coyly and makes an effort to laugh at every one of his (probably awful) jokes. But on Dean’s side…

It’s weird. Sam has known his brother his whole life. He was there when Dean started flirting with girls in school, watched him pick up chicks with a fake ID in dive bars before he turned twenty one, and was well aware of when to make himself scarce after hunts. He knows how Dean acts when he’s interested and actively trying to get someone into bed with him, and this?

This isn’t it.

Every time he smiles, it doesn’t seem to reach his eyes, and he’s sitting back on his stool instead of leaning forward into the bartender’s personal space like she’s doing with him. There’s something closed-off about it—like it’s a performance, a routine that Dean is stepping through just because he feels that he _should_.

Sam sips at his beer and watches idly as the bartender gives one last wink, then turns away to serve other customers. To _her_ , it must surely seem like Dean is into her, but once she turns away, Dean’s eyes don’t follow. Instead, they drop back down to his glass of whiskey, and he lifts it to his lips to take a long pull.

What the hell has him acting so weirdly?

Well. Not ‘what the _hell_ ,’ perhaps. Sam has his suspicions.

Dean looks disinterestedly at the bar and the bottles behind it, sipping occasionally at his whiskey. There’s still something _off_ about him.

And then Cas appears from the crowd and slides up onto the stool next to Dean’s, and Sam watches as his brother seems to light up from the inside.

All of a sudden, all the flirting signals come back. Dean is angling his body, leaning in, smiling and speaking in soft tones. But it’s not towards the bartender—

It’s towards Cas.

Except this time, it’s different to every other time that Dean has flirted with women. This is soft and vulnerable and genuine.

Dean probably doesn’t even _realize_ that he’s flirting with Cas more than he was flirting with the bartender. There’s no doubt in Sam’s mind that that’s what’s happening right now, not with how well he knows his older brother.

But he also knows that Dean is an obtuse dumbass. He wouldn’t recognize his love for Cas if it fell out of the sky and landed on his fucking head. It would take an honest-to-god miracle for either of them to make a move, and until that happens, Sam is stuck being an awkward third wheel with a front row seat to the worst rom-com of all time.

Damn those two idiots. 

Sam gives a long-suffering sigh, then lifts his hand to order another drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/180336603404/performance-for-the-one-word-prompt).


	23. Moving house

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean says goodbye to his old apartment.

Dean’s apartment has been overrun by boxes.

It’s at the point now where he can’t even get into the bathroom without tripping over something, and god, he’d never realized just how much _stuff_ he has. It’s taken forever to get everything packed up, and now that he’s actually seeing it all ready to go… everything’s becoming a bit more real.

He’s lived in this apartment for five years now, and seeing as completely bare as it had been the day he’d first moved in is weird to say the least. Boxes cover the floor of his living room in a seemingly endless sprawl, since all the furniture has been sold or moved already in the last week, but the walls are completely bare.

They used to hold bookshelves and artwork and photographic memories of Dean’s life, and he can’t help but feel a little bit lost as he sits in the middle of his living room, surrounded by the last of his possessions, all boxed up and ready to go, and stares up at the empty walls.

There are so many memories contained within this apartment. So many firsts, so many celebrations, so many ups and downs and new experiences. It feels so strange, knowing that he’s leaving it all behind. The footsteps etched into the floorboards, the thoughts woven into the walls, the parts of Dean himself that are ingrained into this apartment.

He presses his palm against the wooden floor, looks out the sunlit window to the world beyond, and smiles.

Today is a sad day, but it’s also a good day.

“Dean?”

The voice is coming from behind him, from the front door of his apartment. Dean doesn’t turn right away—he knows who it is.

“Heya, Cas,” he says, memorizing the view out the window for a few more moments before looking back towards the door.

His boyfriend is watching him with a small half-smile on his face, leaning against the doorframe with the sleeves of his flannel rolled up to his elbows and his hands pushed casually into the pockets of his faded jeans. He looks relaxed here—this has become as much Cas’s home as it is Dean’s, over the years they’ve been together.

“Ready to start moving these boxes?”

Dean sighs, pressing down a piece of tape on the nearest box that had come unstuck and smoothing it back into place. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he admits. He climbs to his feet.

 _Even if I’ll miss this place, it’ll all be worth it_ , he reminds himself.

And when he and Cas pull up in front of their new house for the first time, with its picket fence and small garden and twice as much space as Dean’s beloved apartment…

It feels like the best kind of new beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/180533408614/congrats-on-500-heres-my-prompt-endless).


	24. Beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean, Cas and Sam take a much needed break at the beach.

In all his years on this earth, doing things most normal people would never dream of and living a life few could imagine, Dean Winchester has never been to the beach.

He’s been _at_ the beach, sure. He’s investigated disappearances, boated out to offshore islands to put spirits to rest, even confronted a werewolf that had set up shack in an abandoned hut on the coastline and was ravaging the nearest town once a month. But a regular day at the beach, with nothing to worry about but sunburn and sand getting into unpleasant places?

This has to be a first.

But considering that they’re on the east coast, having just dealt with a particularly nasty ghost that had left Dean with a nasty concussion, when Sam had suggested the smallest of vacations at a beach just an hour’s drive away, he hadn’t felt like protesting.

Which is how he ended up here, knee-deep in the North Atlantic, wearing _shorts_.

Admittedly, it’s a damn good day. The sun is out, but it’s not blisteringly hot, and the beach is quiet. Sam is doing laps back and forth across the small bay—way too much exercise for Dean, thank you very much—and Cas has found a small group of rockpools by the water that he’s watching.

All in all, it’s nice. Peaceful. After how many times they’ve saved the world, they deserve a little downtime that doesn’t involve sleep or hanging out at the nearest diner. And Dean has to admit—he kinda likes the beach.

The water feels great against his skin, and the sounds of the waves breaking against the sand is a soothing loop of sound. High above, a lone bird wheels against the sun. Sam keeps swimming, back and forth, back and forth.

Dean drags his fingers through the water as he wades through the shallows, making his way through the water to the rockpools. The sand lies in corrugated waves beneath his feet, and he digs his toes in just to feel it shift.

“Find anything cool?” he calls out to Cas, once he’s close enough.

The ex-angel sits on the edge of one of the pools, his legs dangling in the water, perfectly still. It’s weird to see him dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, his feet bare. His boxy suit and trenchcoat are such a key part of him that seeing him without them is like looking at a snail without its shell.

Castiel continues to watch the water, and only once Dean has waded closer does he say, “There creatures are not something to be found ‘cool’, Dean. They’re amazing, unique little life forms.” He pauses, then tilts his head to the side and adds, “However, if you’re looking for something that fits your definition of ‘cool’, I believe I see something that may fit your criteria.”

Dean barely refrains from rolling his eyes in fond amusement at Cas’s initial response, and instead steps up onto the rock. “What’ve you got?” he asks as he sits down next to Cas and dangles his feet into the pool as well.

The water ripples, and Cas turns to glare at Dean for disturbing the pool, but must ultimately let it slide. He points down at a crevice in the rock about halfway down, and Dean squints down at the orange shape until the water stills and he realizes what he’s looking at.

“A starfish? Oh man, that’s fucking cool. I’ve only seen those in shitty aquariums.”

Cas hums, turning his face up towards the sun and closing his eyes. “Yes, starfish are interesting creatures. Did you know that they can evert their stomach to digest their prey?”

Dean pulls a face, and edges his foot back from where he’d been about to gently poke it. “That’s gross.”

“That’s nature, Dean.”

“Nature’s gross,” he quips back, and he can’t help but grin at the exasperated look Cas gives him. Sometimes riling up the ex-angel is just too much fun. He doesn’t want Cas _too_ mad at him, though. “You having a good time?” he asks instead, to change the subject, and leans back on his hands. The rock is warm beneath his palms.

Castiel’s gaze softens, and a smile plays about the corners of his lips, making Dean’s heart double-beat in his chest. “I am,” he admits. “This is a very human thing. Angels don’t designate much time to relaxing, especially not when it involves lazing around on a beach all day. I do wish I didn’t have to worry about getting burned, though.” He examines one forearm—far more tanned than it has any right being. “Sunscreen does not have a nice texture.”

Dean thinks of his freckles, already too numerous without the sun’s extra help, and grimaces sympathetically. “Yeah, I feel that. Still, it’s nice to just chill for a bit, you know?”

“I am actually very warm, Dean,” Cas deadpans, looking pointedly up towards the sun.

When Dean sighs, it pulls a chuckle out of Cas—the asshole _knows_ what Dean means, he just chooses to be obtuse about it. “You’re the worst,” Dean mutters, but he bumps his shoulder against Cas’s, just for a second. He’s sun-warm and smiling and perfect, and Dean has to drag his eyes away, back down to the starfish sitting below the water.

If only every day could be like this; no hunts, no near-death (or actual-death) experiences, no needing to save the world. Just them, on a beach, soaking up the sun without a care in the world.

Dean can dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/180541126434/for-the-one-word-ficlets-vacation).


	25. Nesting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean builds a nest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: A/B/O dynamics

Castiel comes home from work to find all the cushions and blankets missing from the living room couches.

 _Is it that time of the year already?_ There’s no doubt as to what the absence means, but it seems as though time has gotten way from Castiel just a little.

He leaves his briefcase on the side table and pulls his wings in tight so that he can take off his suit jacket, then leaves that on the hook by the door. “Dean? Honey?” he calls out, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and rolling them up to his elbows. A few steps further into the house, and he catches a trace of Dean’s fresh scent. “You here?”

“In the bedroom,” comes the—somewhat muffled—answering call.

He hadn’t expected anything less. Castiel smiles, finishes rolling up his sleeves, then goes to find his mate.

Dean’s scent grows much stronger the closer Castiel gets to the bedroom, and there’s the faintest hint of sweetness to it, brown sugar layered over apple and spice. He drinks it in, and his smile widens as he reaches the door to their bedroom.

The king-sized bed in the centre of the back wall is covered in pillows and blankets and every soft thing that Dean could have possibly found in the house—Castiel even spies one or two of their nicest towels. It’s all constructed in a loosely circular shape, the pillows making up the outer edge and blankets covering every available space.

From the centre of his nest, covered in a few of their oldest blankets that carry the most of Castiel’s scent, Dean gives him a sheepish smile. “Hey babe.”

It’s hard for Castiel’s heart not to melt completely when he sees Dean like this. His smile widens. “Hello to you too. You’ve been busy with your day off work.”

Dean rolls over further and props himself up on his elbows. His wings unfold from his back, lifting against the blankets and curving out towards Castiel in a gesture that very clearly says _come here_. “I sure have,” he agrees, reaching out to adjust one of the pillows. “Didn’t realize I was getting so close to my heat, I guess, but here I am. You gonna come join me, or what?”

 _Pushy omega_. Castiel huffs out a laugh and shakes his head fondly, then crosses the room towards the bed. He removes his shoes while Dean pokes and prods and restructures the nest, waiting patiently until his mate deems it ready and lifts a wing in invitation.

Climbing into the next without disturbing Dean’s careful creation is a challenge, and Castiel takes it slowly, careful not to dislodge any of the blankets and pillows. Dean has adjusted it so that there’s a little more space in the centre now for a second person, and once he’s over the barrier of pillows, he fits in easily. It’s cozy and warm and all of it smells like Dean.

“Do you like it?” Dean asks, biting gently down on his bottom lip as he watches Cas settle in. As much as he nests to satisfy his own instincts, he always, _always_ checks that Castiel approves of his constructions. It’s sweet, really, that he thinks Castiel could ever be anything less than utterly smitten with Dean’s nesting and heat habits.

“Of course, love,” he whispers, reaching out to card his fingers through Dean’s hair and caress his mate’s wings with his own. Dean arches up into both touches and sighs, like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He smells perfect, like everything Castiel could ever want in a mate, and he hums as he shuffles closer to Dean. His black wing stretches out over his omega in a blanketing embrace, his arm wrapped around Dean’s waist and holding him close.

Dean purrs, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, and presses closer to Castiel. “Love you,” he mumbles against Castiel’s neck, that brown sugar scent curling perfectly around them both.

In the centre of the next Dean has built, with his beloved omega in his arms, Castiel simply presses his nose into Dean’s hair and smiles. “I love you too,” he whispers quietly. This, right here, is everything he’s ever wanted.

It’s perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/180549576284/congrats-on-500-one-word-prompt-pillows).


	26. Noctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean Winchester tells his diary about the monster that lives in the closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noctuary: a record of what passes in the night; a nightly journal.

In the early days of his childhood, before he knew of monsters and demons and things that went bump in the night, Dean Winchester kept a diary.

Most of the entries were normal—just documentations of everyday life.

_Dad taught me the proper way to throw a baseball. I can’t wait until I can start playing for reals._

_Today we made apple pie for Thanksgiving, and mom let me have the biggest piece._

_Sammy read his first book today. He’s going to be smart, I can tell._

He would write an entry every night, just before he went to bed, and he did so for many years. Every day written down, in a special journal that Dean kept in a box under his bed. To him, it was just a nice routine, a bit of fun.

Until all of a sudden, it wasn’t.

It began when Dean was ten.

_Dear diary._

_I think there’s something in my closet._

_The door opens without me touching it, and sometimes I hear noises coming from inside. My room feels cold some days, and it moves around while I’m asleep. I keep my eyes closed really tight when I can hear it, and hope that it will go away._

When Dean tells his dad, John laughs it off. “There’s no monster hiding in your closet, Dean. Monsters aren’t real.” To placate him, though, John wedges a chair under the closet handles that night before Dean goes to sleep. “There you go,” he says jokingly, “the monster can’t get you tonight.”

Dean is relieved. That night, he doesn’t write in his diary.

In the morning, when he wakes up, his chair is back under his desk as though it was never moved in the first place.

~ 

Dean’s dad doesn’t believe him when he tells him about the monster, and his mom doesn’t listen at all, just brushes it off as his overactive imagination. His diary becomes his only outlet.

_Dear diary,_

_I heard the monster tonight._

_Dear diary,_

_I’m scared. Please send someone who can help me._

_Dear diary,_

_Dear diary,_

_Dear diary._

~

Dean writes in his diary for weeks. And in those weeks, the darkness he can feel lingering in his closet spreads dark tendrils of fear into his room. Things move, deep growls rumble through his room at night, lights flicker on and off—but it never touches Dean. Just _lingers_.

What it’s waiting for, he doesn’t know, but he knows it’s _there_ , even though the closet is always empty whenever one of his parents open it.

For weeks, the thing spreads, and nothing happens.

And then one night, everything happens at once.

~ 

It’s very late on a Sunday night, and the whole house is asleep.

The whole house, bar one.

Dean had almost been asleep when he’d heard it—the sound of claws rasping against wood, something dragging, slithering. The sounds are coming from his closet.

He pulls his covers up over his head and trembles, hoping the blankets will muffle the sound that only he seems to be able to hear—but they don’t. The scraping gets louder. He can hear the monster breathing, and fear wraps around his heart in a cold grip. The monster has lain dormant for so long that Dean can’t even begin to imagine why it’s here, or what it wants from him.

He knows, though, deep in his heart, that whatever its plan…

It’s happening tonight.

The closet door creaks as it slowly, _slowly_ swings open.

 _Dear diary_ , Dean thinks. _Please, I need someone to help me, I’m—I’m so scared. Please help me_.

And then he hears something else.

Something new.

It’s like a hum, except made of a thousand different voices each singing a slightly different tune. They blend into an overwhelming harmony that at first makes no sense, but slowly… the sounds recombine into syllables, and then into words, and then Dean can _hear_.

“You’re sure this is the place, Castiel?”

A second voice speaks, now, in a different harmony, made of a thousand new voices. Dean likes this one better than the first. “Yes. I can feel it. There is something sinister in this house, Anael, of such intense malicious intent and so strong that I can feel its power growing with every passing minute. We must hurry.”

Their voices are in Dean’s head, but somehow he knows that these people—are they people? Whoever, or whatever, they are—are nearby.

He holds his breath. In his closet, the monster growls again, louder and deeper than Dean has ever heard it. The house is otherwise silent, creaking occasionally in the wind, his family surely all fast asleep. A cold sensation starts in Dean’s toes, slowly creeping upward along his legs. The wooden end of Dean’s bed creaks and snaps beneath the strong grip of claws, and he trembles harder.

 _Please, please, please. Help me_.

And then the windows of Dean’s room shatter inwards.

His head still tucked under his blankets, Dean is protected from the shards of glass that rain across the room, but he hears the monster screech horribly. The sound is like talons on metal, and he cries out as the pain of it lances through his head.

“Protect the child!” the first voice orders, and all at once, Dean feels the cold that grips his body subside. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly and stays where he is, curled into a ball beneath the covers. Whatever is going on out there, he knows he doesn’t want to look until it’s all over.

The monster shrieks again, knives and nails and the screams of so many tormented people, but this time there are words laced into the earsplitting sound. “ _Mine_ ,” it snarls, in a voice so awful that every single one of Dean’s hairs stand on end. “ _My chosen prey. You angels have no right_.”

The harmonic voices come again, filling Dean’s head with light and sound and more stimulation than he can possibly take.

“He has prayed. He is protected. Leave this place.”

“ _Not until what I get what I have been waiting for. Preying on. Biding my time to consume. You will have to kill me before I give it up.”_

“So be it.”

Dean’s mind implodes.

He covers his mouth with his hands and screams silently as the room explodes with cold— light—sound—darkness. Everything changing, too quickly for him to process and so overwhelming. He shakes under the blankets as outside his protective cocoon, the two voices— _angels? Could it be?_ —fight against the monster that has been lingering at the edges of his nightmares for so long.

 _He is protected_.

The noise—the unearthly screeching, and the sound of bells and voices so loud that Dean’s ears must be bleeding—continues and continues for a timeless age, until the foundations of his house creak and groan and shake, until Dean can’t take any more, until—

All of a sudden, it stops.

There is silence, and then the second voice says, “Track the creature, Anael. Don’t let it escape. I will tend to the child.”

Dean is blissfully empty. Free of unbearable cold or burning heat, earsplitting sounds or lights so bright they seem to have burned themselves into his mind, despite his eyes being so tightly closed. For one pure moment, he just _is_.

Slowly, shakily, he uncurls from his defensive ball and opens his eyes.

From under the edges of the blankets that he’s pulled over himself, Dean sees a soft, blue, glowing light.

“Dean Winchester?”

The voice seems… softer. It’s still a thousand different voices in his head, all combined into one, but the words are quiet. Tentative. Whatever is speaking to him, it doesn’t want to frighten him.

When Dean blinks, his lashes are wet, and he realizes he’s been crying. “W-what?” he whispers quietly. His voice shakes.

The light outside his blankets shifts and brightens. “You can… you can hear me?”

It sounds almost surprised.

“Yes,” Dean says quietly. He curls his fingers around the edge of the blankets, and the glow gets brighter as he lifts them up just a little. “I could hear you, and—and the monster.”

He wants to see the angel, and he sits up, pushing the blankets off himself.

“Wait—“ says the voice as he moves, but it’s too late.

For a few seconds, the blue glow filling Dean’s room is too bright, to the point where he has to squint against it and hold his hand up to his eyes to shield them. And then it slowly fades away, and Dean’s eyes widen at the sight before him.

Crouched in Dean’s room is a creature so big that it shouldn’t possibly be all fitting in here—and indeed, the room feels _off_ , like it’s been modified and stretched and manipulated just to be able to accommodate this… _angel_.

It has three heads; one lion, one crow, and a human one in the middle that watches Dean with ethereal, blue, too-large eyes. It has paws and hooves and feet and it’s so squished into Dean’s room that he can’t see just how it all fits together, but the one thing that stands out are the two blue-black wings pressed against the walls of Dean’s room.

They shift and sparkle, constantly moving, stars and galaxies confined within those ink-dark feathers as though this creature holds the entire universe on its back.

Dean can only stare, completely lost for words.

The angel blinks once, slowly, then leans in closer to Dean. None of its mouths move, but Dean clearly hears it say in his head, “You can see me?”

“Of course,” he replies, like it’s the plainest thing in the world. “You look nice. I like your wings.”

In Dean’s mind, there is a sound like bells and wind chimes. The angel is _happy_. He smiles.

“Thank you for saving me from the monster. Mom and dad thought I was lying about it, but I told my diary. Is that why you came?”

“We came because you needed us, Dean Winchester,” the angel says in his head. “You are protected.” It reaches out one huge paw and settles it gingerly on the end of his bed.

Dean puts his hand on the glowing, blue fur. It feels soft and solid, but a shiver runs up his arm, and a taste like static electricity sparks across his tongue. When he looks back up, it almost feels like the angel is smiling.

“I am the angel Castiel,” it says. “I must go now, but I am sure we will meet again, Dean Winchester.”

It spreads its wings, and they ripple with the shifting of a million tiny stars and galaxies. The room is filled with a flash of light, so bright that Dean finally has to close his eyes against it, and when he opens them, the angel is gone. His hand falls to the bed.

The house is silent once again, as though nothing had ever happened.

At the foot of Dean’s bed, though, balanced atop the quilted covers, lies a single black feather. He picks it up and runs his fingers along its length; it feels impossibly, ethereally soft.

Dean smiles and holds it to his chest.

 _I am sure we will meet again, Dean Winchester_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/180578517119/noctuary).


	27. Quidditch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hufflepuff captain Dean leads his team against the Gryffindors—and one Gryffindor in particular.

Dean has played a lot of games of Quidditch, but he’s never played one quite like this.

He tries to keep his head clear and his hands steady as he gets changed in the Hufflepuff locker room, donning his uniform and his protective gear. Around him, his team chatters, talking equal parts strategy and smack about the other team, but they know not to disturb him.

They know how important this game is for Dean.

Once everyone is ready, he gathers them in to run through the plays for today’s game: the Gryffindors play hard and relentless, utilizing every opening to their advantage, and Dean’s squad is going to have to match them at every turn. This year’s Hufflepuff team is tenacious, though, and won’t give up no matter what. He has faith that they can beat their opponents today.

Besides, if he just _happened_ to overhear some of the tactics the Gryffindor captain is going to be using today, that’s neither here nor there, and he’s sure that some snooping has been done on the Gryffindors’ end too—not that it matters. It just evens the playing ground.

 _God_ , Dean has been looking forward to this match since tryouts at the start of the school year. If he can snag the Quidditch Cup this year, he’s going to win bragging rights for the rest of his life.

The team talk complete, Dean releases everyone to do their final pre-match preparations. He checks and double checks all his gear, gives his broom one last quick wax and overview, then grabs his bat out of his gear bag and twirls it once, checking the weight.

 _Perfect_. The Gryffindor captain is going to have his work cut out today in dodging Dean’s bludgers, that’s for sure.

Finally, they’re called out of the locker room and out towards the pitch. Dean heads his team, who line up behind him with their brooms in hand and battle faces on. They’re all ready—they’ve been training hard for this one match ever since Dean learned who the Gryffindor captain would be this year.

The okay comes to mount their brooms, and Dean does so with quiet confidence.

One after the after, they fly out onto the pitch to the excited roar of the crowds. Dean grins as he does a slow lap around the pitch, waving to the crowds of Hufflepuffs on the stands before pulling up in the centre, high above the ground.

His gaze gravitates towards the door hiding the Gryffindor entrance, and he sits on his broom and waits for the other team.

It’s not long before the door is sliding open, and the Gryffindor team shoots out in blurs of red and gold. Dean watches one blur in particular, rolling his eyes fondly at the extravagant rolls and dives the player makes as they do their lap around the pitch.

 _Show-off_.

The Gryffindor captain drops into a steep, spiraling dive, then pulls up at the last second and rockets back up to where Dean is waiting. When they finally stop moving, Dean’s gaze settles on a shock of dark, windblown hair, bright blue eyes, and a wide, gummy smile.

“You really had to show me up like that, huh?” he teases, leaning back on his broom.

Castiel Novak just laughs. “What can I say? I enjoy it. And it’s a good warm-up, too.” His eyes sparkle in the bright sunlight, glimmering with mirth at his half-truth. They can both be show-offs at the best of times, but personally, Dean finds that it’s better if he reins in his energy to focus it on the game.

His boyfriend, however, has no such qualms.

“Gotta give your house at least a little bit of a show before we crush you today,” Dean agrees with a wink.

Cas raises one eyebrow, his lips curling into a cheeky half-smile. “It’s cute that a Hufflepuff thinks he can ‘talk smack’ to a Gryffindor,” he quips back, air quotes and all. Dean swings lightly at him with his bat, and Cas dodges it easily, laughing.

“Hey, I taught you that term,” Dean protests, “you can’t use that against me!”

“Bad luck, babe.” Despite all the trash talking, though, Cas is still grinning, and he sidles closer to Dean’s broom. Dean doesn’t protest when his boyfriend curls his fingers into the front of his yellow-and-black robes and pulls him in for a kiss—in fact, he melts into it, sliding his fingers into Cas’s windswept hair.

“Hey! No funny business on the pitch, you two!” Hooch’s voice just carries up from where she’s standing on the ground, and Dean laughs as they break the kiss.

“Worth it.”

Cas kisses him on the cheek one more time for good luck, and then they separate properly. “Get ready to lose!” Cas calls, and Dean watches as he zooms away to his starting position.

 _Oh, he has_ no  _idea what’s coming to him_. Dean grins and twirls his bat in his hand.

The whistle blows, and the game is _on_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/180583839899/lockerrooms-one-word-fic-thing).


	28. A/B/O love confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel confronts an angry and violent Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: canon-typical violence, very mild and brief sexual content.

The alleyway smells of mildew and smoke and barely-bottled fury.

The scent that Castiel had followed out from the bar had been carefully neutral, but this new anger is like a punch to the gut. He’s glad he’d decided to slip the attentions of the too-eager bartender and see where his best friend had disappeared too, now that he’s found Dean smelling like _this_.

Castiel approaches him cautiously, trying to keep his own scent level to balance out the churning anger of the omega’s. “Dean? Is everything okay?”

A sharpness ricochets through Dean’s scent, and his head snaps up from where he’s standing against the wall, a cigarette caught between his lips. Whatever the problem affecting Dean is, Castiel realizes, it must be bad for him to be smoking. When his green eyes meet Castiel’s, they’re dark and guarded, and his lips curl into a scowl.

“Th’ fuck do you want, Cas?”

His sharp tone lances through Castiel like a blade, and he reels from it for a second before a responding anger begins to curl in his gut. Why should Dean greet him with such abrasion when he’s only trying to check in on his best friend who’d disappeared right in the middle of his birthday drinks? Castiel bares his teeth.

“What the fuck do _I_ want? Maybe just to know why you’re out here smoking a cigarette and smelling like you want to see the world burn, instead of inside celebrating with your friends?”

Dean inhales, then pulls the cigarette away. Smoke curls out from between his lips and dissipates into the night air.

In amongst his anger and frustration, Castiel is hit by the overwhelming urge to kiss him.

He shoves it back down. Now isn’t the time to be addressing his years-long crush, not when his best friend is clearly hurting and lashing out at whatever comes near—which just happens to be Castiel.

They both watch the smoke thin and disappear, and then Dean says, level and measured; “Fuck off.”

“Dean, I—“

“Fuck _off_ , Cas!” It’s like he breaks, all the pent-up fury inside him shattering and exploding outwards in thousands of razor-sharp pieces. He drops his half-smoked cigarette to the wet concrete and grinds it into the ground with his boot as he advances on Castiel, smelling like anger and hurt and grief so palpable that he can taste it on his tongue. “I don’t fucking want you here right now! Stop fucking following me around and making everything a thousand times worse, you _asshole_.”

Before Castiel can react, there are hands fisting in the front of his jacket, and Dean’s momentum is carrying him backwards until his back hits the brick wall behind him. He grunts with the force of it, then growls, wrapping his fingers around Dean’s wrists in an attempt to dislodge him.

“What did I do?” he spits, digging his nails into Dean’s wrists until his grip loosens. Not to be deterred, Dean throws a punch towards Castiel’s head, which he only barely manages to dodge. In all his years of knowing Dean, he’s never seen him like this. “If I’m causing you problems, you need to tell me like a fucking adult, not try and knock me out in an alleyway!” He’s reeling from Dean’s suggestion that _he’s_ somehow the problem, even though he has no idea what he’s done wrong, but the anger and the violence is something he can deal with right now.

“Don’t want to talk about it,” Dean snarls; his green eyes are wild, his scent an ever-changing mess that Castiel can’t quite get a read on any more. “I just want not to fucking _feel_. I want to hit you. I want to _get_ hit, until I can’t feel anything. Until all this bullshit _stops_.”

“What are you talking about, Dean?”

This time, Dean doesn’t answer. Instead, he takes one step back, then launches himself at Castiel again. He’s a flurry of thrown punches and kicks and hands trying to push, pull, _anything_. Dean is angry, and he’s taking it out on whoever comes close.

Castiel fends off the attacks as best he can, but Dean clips him in the jaw and lands a kick that glances off his lower ribcage, and motherfucker, it _hurts_. His warning growl rumbles in his chest, but Dean just bares his teeth ferally and fights harder.

That’s it.

“You asked for it,” Castiel warns—Dean knows full well that he’s capable of protecting himself, and he calls upon those buried skills now.

The next punch Dean throws, Castiel sidesteps and blocks it, then uses Dean’s ill-weighted momentum to propel him towards the wall. He hits the brick with a _thud_ and a groan, and then Castiel is crowding up behind him, pinning him in place. He’s had enough, and he wants some goddamn answers from his best friend, who’s apparently decided to be a total asshole tonight.

He knots his fingers into Dean’s collar and pins him, chest-first, against the wall, twisting one arm up behind his back with his other hand. The omega laughs bitterly. “That all you got, _alpha_?”

Castiel’s heart beats double-time against his ribcage. He can smell the possessiveness creeping into his scent. “Don’t call me that,” he rasps against Dean’s ear, his weight pressing Dean further against the wall. “You going to tell me what’s pissing you off now?”

Dean turns his head so that his cheek is pressed against the wall and grins at Castiel. His lip is split, and the expression doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You,” he spits, and his scent is a sickening mixture of despair and anger and grief. “You’re my fucking problem, _Castiel_.”

For a second, it feels as though he’s been punched.

What does Dean mean, _he’s_ the problem?

“What?” is all he can say, his voice quiet. He’d tried not to let his hurt and confusion show, but he knows that it’s evident in the wobble of his voice and the burnt undertones starting to layer into his scent.

“You heard me.” Dean leans his head against the wall. “You. You and your fucking face, and your attitude, and your dumb fucking humour. All of it. _You’re_ my problem.”

Beneath Castiel’s hands, the fight is beginning to drain out of Dean, leaving him limp and empty.

“I… I’m not sure I follow,” he says quietly. He loosens his grip on Dean’s collar and lets his hand rest on the back of the omega’s neck. Dean shivers.

“ _You_ ,” he says again, as though that will provide more clarity this time, and his voice cracks on the single syllable. “It’s always been you.”

“Dean—“

“We’ve been friends for how long, Cas? In all those years, you’ve never once seemed interested, never been tempted by my heat-scent, never get jealous when other alphas flirt with me. I know you don’t fucking want me, and I _hate_ it, okay?” Dean’s breath shudders, like it’s been pulled from his chest. “And seeing that fucking bartender flirting with you in there… it just pushed me over the fucking edge.”

Castiel feels numb.

It takes him several endlessly long seconds to process everything that Dean has just said to him. All the times that he’s had to use his carefully-maintained self-control around Dean, whenever he’s nearing his heat or whenever people are flirting with him—which is basically every time they go out in public, because Dean is _gorgeous_ and whip-smart and everything an alpha could ever want in a mate…

All the time that Castiel has been holding himself back, thinking that Dean doesn’t want him, not wanting to risk fucking up their friendship…

“Dean, do you—”

His words trail off into the night air. He can’t say it, can’t say it in case he’s wrong and there’s the slimmest chance that he’s royally misinterpreting this.

Dean makes a small, vulnerable sound in the back of his throat. His lashes flutter against his cheeks, and he bites his lip, then says—

“I’m in love with you, Cas. And it fucking kills me every day.”

Slowly, Castiel lets his hands fall away. Dean stretches his trapped arm out once it’s released, but when Castiel’s hand slides off the back of his neck, he whimpers audibly, then bites back the sound. For a few seconds, he stays in place, pressed against the wall, and then he slowly turns to face Castiel.

Dean leans his back against the brick and looks out past Castiel’s left shoulder, not meeting his eyes. The man who had been all pent-up anger and wildly swinging fists just a minute ago now looks so small. So vulnerable.

“So now you know, huh?” He laughs bitterly, broken and sad. “I get it if you don’t want to be friends any more. If it’s too weird. But I had to… I had to say it. I felt like I was going fucking crazy, having it bottled up inside me for so long.”

He pushes off the wall and turns to leave, but Castiel stops him, reaching out and putting a hand on his shoulder. “I know the feeling,” he says quietly—now is his chance, his chance to show Dean exactly how he’s felt for so many long years.

For the first time since his confession, Dean meets Castiel’s gaze. His eyes are wide, but his scent curls with the faintest traces of shock and hope.

“Cas—“

He doesn’t get any further before Castiel is stepping in close, sliding his hand up to Dean’s jaw and pressing him back against the wall with his body. Dean’s breath hitches, and then he’s leaning in to meet Cas halfway. The kiss is a little clumsy, a little desperate, but Dean’s lips are soft and his scent transforms in an instant and it’s utterly _perfect_. He tastes like whiskey and smoke and the coppery tang of blood and Castiel presses in closer, running his hand down the side of Dean’s body to his thigh until he lifts his leg and hooks it over Castiel’s hip.

It pulls them both in closer, and Castiel groans against Dean’s lips at the angle that the new position provides. “Fuck,” he gasps quietly, then lets out a moan as Dean’s hands drift down his back to squeeze his ass.

Dean pulls back for a second while their lips are separated and watches Castiel down the length of his nose, head tipped back and eyes lust-dark. “Just so we’re clear,” he says, his breath ragged, “this means you like me too, right?”

Castiel chuckles breathlessly, then leans forward to drag his lips along the bared expanse of Dean’s neck, relishing the way his omega whimpers and grips him tighter, hips grinding in small movements against Castiel’s. “Yes, Dean Winchester,” Castiel rumbles against the bolt of Dean’s jaw. “I am in love with you.”

Dean inhales, a small, hitching gasp, then tangles his fingers in Castiel’s hair and pulls him back up for a messy, desperate kiss. It’s all teeth and tongue and Dean’s hands push, pull, riling Castiel up until he’s pressing Dean harder against the brick wall and hoisting his other leg up to wrap around his waist. The moan Dean lets out is absolutely obscene, and Castiel is so achingly hard now, grinding his erection against the hard line of Dean’s denim-confined cock.

“Cas,” Dean moans, and the heady scent of his arousal and is permeating the air around them, so strong that Castiel can barely think straight. “Cas, _fuck_. Say it again.”

“I love you,” Castiel growls against Dean’s lips, digging his fingers into the omega’s thighs. “I love you, I’ve loved you since we met in college, and I was too stupid to do anything about it.”

Laughter bubbles up from Dean’s chest, and he kisses Castiel again, then presses their foreheads together. “You and me both,” he admits, wrapping his arms around Cas’s neck. “We’re both a couple of dumbasses.”

“That we are.” 

They kiss and touch and explore for a little while longer, and though there’s still arousal simmering beneath Castiel’s skin and so much beautiful omega pressed against him and wrapped around him, the urgency of their movements slowly fades as realization dawns.

This doesn’t have to be a harried fuck in the back alley of a bar. This is the start of something precious and new and it doesn’t have to be quick and dirty. They can take their time—Castiel _wants_ to take his time. He’s waited so long, and he wants to treat Dean right, and that means keeping his libido in check until they make it back home and Castiel can lay Dean out on his bed and _worship_ him.

“I’m sorry for trying to fight you,” Dean mumbles against Castiel’s lips, guilt curling into his scent.

Castiel hushes him. “It’s okay, Dean. You were upset. I’ll have a sore jaw, but it’s nothing some breakfast in bed tomorrow morning can’t fix,” he says with a grin.

Dean’s laughter echoes through the alleyway, and Castiel’s heart soars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/180635575879/my-one-word-prompt-is-knot-because-you-asked-and).


	29. Dean vs. Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's new dog has his sights set on Dean's breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Groak: to look on silently at people while they are eating.

“Saaam!”

Dean hears a bang and a few muffled curse words from the kitchen, and then his brother’s voice yells back, “What?”

“Your dog is staring at my bacon again!” He eyes the creature distrustfully, sliding his plate further away when the Labrador—“he’s not called a ‘big yellow bastard,’ Dean, he has a name”—shuffles a step closer, wagging its tail. Ever since Sam rescued Mack from the local pound, the damn thing has made itself right at home here in the bunker.

And, as it turns it, it has an appetite to rival Dean’s.

Sam’s head pops out of the kitchen, and he frowns at Dean. “And? He can’t help it, Dean, he’s a dog. Give him some of your damn bacon.” And with that, he disappears again.

Dean scowls. “Like hell you’re getting any of my food,” he mutters to the dog. He keeps eating his breakfast, fully aware of the eyes that are trained on him, watching Dean’s every move and every forkful of food that he lifts to his lips.

At one point, he makes the mistake of looking back down at the patiently waiting dog. _Fuck, those eyes really do rival Sammy’s when he wants something. I should’ve tried harder to get him to rename the thing to Moose._

Puppy dog eyes or not, though, he stays strong. He’s halfway through his big plate of eggs and bacon when Cas walks into the dining area with a mug of coffee, rubbing at his eyes.

“Morning, Cas,” Dean greets with a smile. “Needed a sleep-in, did you?”

Cas hums his agreement as he wanders over to Dean and takes a seat at the table beside him. “Yes,” he says, taking a sip of coffee. “ _Someone_ kept me up rather late last night. I don’t understand how you wake up so early.”

Ever since losing his grace, Cas has realized just how much sleep the average human needs, but Dean is used to surviving on less. He leans over to kiss his boyfriend, smiling at the coffee taste on Cas’s lips. “Yeah, well, you know me. Plus, I was looking forward to my breakfast.”

Castiel’s eyes meet Dean’s, and then his gaze drops to something just past him. He lifts the mug to his lips again, barely hiding a smile. “I hope you weren’t too attached to that breakfast,” he muses.

When Dean turns, Mack has taken advantage of Dean’s distraction and is standing beside his chair with his paws up on the edge of the table, head craned forward as he licks Dean’s plate clean.

“You motherfucker!” he splutters as he shoos the dog away, but the damage has been done. Dean’s breakfast is long gone.

He shoves up from the table and storms off to the kitchen to give Sam a piece of his mind, and Cas’s laughter echoes off the walls behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/180637018229/groak).


	30. Actors AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean struggles to separates his working relationship with his co-star from their characters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: non-explicit NSFW.

Dean is learning very quickly that having a shirtless Castiel Novak up close and personal is… distracting, to say the least.

He’s seen Castiel shirtless before, of course, but there’s something about him being flushed and _in between Dean’s legs_ , his jean-clad thighs nudging Dean’s knees open even further, that is short-circuiting his brain just a little bit. Even so, he tries his best to concentrate, to focus on Cas and the cues he’s giving instead of listening to the insistence of his all-too-real libido.

Cas leans closer, his grin wide and easy, and despite his focus on _focusing_ , Dean still feels like he’s two steps behind when confident fingers ruck his shirt up past his nipples. “Fuck,” he groans, and Castiel chuckles, deep and sure. There’s only so much Dean can process at once—the hands on his skin, the heat that radiates from the man in front of him, the lips slowly kissing over all the areas Cas has exposed. How the fuck is he meant to concentrate like this?

“Feels so good,” he manages to gasp, then tangles his fingers into Castiel’s hair and pulls him up for a kiss. It’s meant to be sweet and slow, he knows, but his dick aches against the confines of his jeans and all he can think about is how well Cas could split him open and make him come apart _properly_. As a result, the kiss is sloppy, _desperate_ —Dean bites at Castiel’s lips and sweeps his tongue into his mouth, and the little sound of surprise Cas makes before giving back as good as he’s getting is muffled enough that it’s not picked up.

They pause for long enough to pull Dean’s shirt off properly, and then Dean pulls Cas down against the bed with him, the other man slotting perfectly in between his spread thighs. The friction against Dean’s cock is enough to frustrate but not enough to satisfy, and he barely manages to keep himself from chasing it.

He runs his hands over Cas’s back as they kiss, then shifts them down towards his belt. It takes all his self control not to slide his hands down the back of Castiel’s jeans, and instead he focuses on undoing the button and the fly—slowly, until Cas makes a needy, impatient noise against Dean’s mouth. He curls his fingertips around the waistband of Cas’s jeans and tugs them down, and his fingers graze against something beneath his boxer briefs, something that feels suspiciously like the firm line of an erection, and—

Fuck, Cas is _hard_.

Although the touch is nothing more than a light skim of fingers, Cas’s hips stutter and grind into Dean’s, and he gives a low, rumbling moan. “Fuck, De— _Michael!_ ”

Dean jerks, pulled out of the moment as effectively as if a bucket of cold water had been tipped on him. For a second, he just stares up at Cas, his brain taking a few seconds to process that—

“ _Cut_!”

Castiel props himself up on his hands and looks down at Dean, his eyes wide and cheeks flushed. Fucking _hell_ , they’d been going so well, too, until Dean had fucked it up by getting too into it and forgetting both his directions _and_ his boundaries. _What kind of unprofessional actor_ —

“Dean! Buddy! Michael is making love with Jimmy, okay? It’s all in the script—do you need to read it again?”

Of course he doesn’t need to read it again—Dean _knows_ all the stage directions, all the lines, but somehow when he’s got an almost-naked Castiel Novak on top of him, it all just… disappears from his mind. He rolls his head sideways on the pillow to give Cain a quick, tight smile as the camera operators reset and the boom mics retreat for a few seconds.

“Nah, I think I know it, it must’ve just slipped my mind for a sec. Can we go again?”

Cain gives him a look like he doesn’t quite believe Dean, but ultimately gives the go-ahead for them to start from the top. Dean gets back into position, but he can’t quite meet Cas’s eyes.

“Are you okay?” Cas asks quietly, sitting back on the mattress and buttoning his jeans back up. “I’m sorry, I—that was unprofessional of me.”

Unprofessional of _him_? Dean’s the one who’d touched the guy’s dick—they’re trying to make an Oscar-worthy film here, not a cheap porno, and Dean has to remember that. They’re doing this because it’s _scripted_ , as their _jobs_ , not because Cas actually likes him. At least, not like _that_.

When he’s with Cas in a scene like this, though, it’s surprisingly easy to forget that the bedroom they’re in is just a set, and that it’s their characters with the love-laden connection, not them.

“It’s fine, Cas, it wasn’t your fault. Don’t worry about it—and I’m sorry, for, uh… you know.” Dean gives his co-star what he hopes is a convincing smile, pretending not to notice that the one Cas gives him in return doesn’t reach his eyes.

They have to be Michael and Jimmy, not Dean and Cas.

“Let’s go again,” he says, with confidence that he doesn’t feel. “I’ve got this.”

~

After a few more takes, they make it through the scene successfully, without Dean having weird reactions to his character’s name or completely forgetting his directions or accidentally groping his co-star. He and Cas chat for a while as they get dressed again, friendly and companionable as if they hadn’t just pretended to make love to each other, but the thrum of arousal still hums under Dean’s skin.

It’s not long before he excuses himself to his trailer. In the privacy of his shower, and with the image of dark, wild hair and bright blue eyes in his mind, he finally comes; the name on his lips is not ‘Jimmy’ but _Cas_ , groaned into the steam-swirling air as he spills over his hand and gasps out his pleasure.

Once his high has begun to dissipate, he leans back against the wall of the shower, guilt beginning to creep in beneath the lingering feelings of satisfaction and bliss.

There’s no way Cas likes him in the same way Dean does. The guy is fucking famous, and Dean is just a B-lister who’s been given a chance to co-star with an actor way out of his league in more ways than one.

He cleans his hand off under the water and groans, letting his head fall back against the wall with a dull _thud_.

There’s no way Cas is into him.

 

~~~

 

Castiel can’t stop thinking about yesterday.

In all his years of acting, all the scenes he’s filmed and the men and women he’s been half-naked (or more) with, he’s _never_ messed up his co-star’s name during a sex scene. Something about Dean Winchester, the boy from Kansas with only a few indie movie credits to his name, has picked Castiel up and turned him around until he has no idea which way is up.

After they’d wrapped, he’d gone back to his trailer and just… sat on his couch. He’d sat there and stared at the opposite wall and relived those few moments, over and over again, his cheeks burning bright with just the memory of it. 

When Dean had kissed him, all teeth and tongue and passion like he’s never known from someone simply playing a character, it had been all too easy to lose himself. He’d gotten sloppy, forgotten small directions, let his lust and his attraction cloud his head until it wasn’t like he was at work any more. Instead, he’d been back in his apartment with Dean laid out on his bed beneath him, all wandering hands and desperate kisses, his perfect sounds _real_ and made only for Castiel.

The unbuttoning of the jeans had been in the script, but he’d been so far gone that when Dean’s fingertips had brushed the barely-contained line of his cock, he’d been lost.

And to have almost, _almost_ said Dean’s name? If he hadn’t caught himself halfway into the syllable, he never would have lived it down.

He’s so gone on Dean Winchester that he’s messing up scenes, and he _still_ can’t get him out of his head, even in the solitude of his trailer. He just keeps thinking about those eyes, the lips that had been so soft beneath Castiel’s, the bulge in his jeans that Cas is _sure_ he hadn’t been imagining.

But it’s _beyond_ appropriate to be having these thoughts about a co-worker. Castiel puts his head in his hands and groans—who gave Dean Winchester the right to captivate him to the point where he can’t even do his job any more?

He needs to properly apologize for his unprofessional behaviour, that much is clear. But how? He’d tried, just after, but Dean had waved him off and been more concerned with accidentally touching Castiel. That hadn’t been his fault, though, accidents happen in the moment, but it _is_ Castiel’s fault for reacting how he did, and for ruining the scene by almost saying Dean’s name. After all, that’s why Dean had jerked like he did. He’d heard Castiel’s slip-up, small as it was, and it had pulled them both out of their headspaces.

Not that Castiel’s had been all that solid to begin with.

So he needs to apologize for ruining the scene, and for actually allowing himself to be pulled into that fantasy with Dean in the first place.

 _Fuck_.

Castiel lies back on his couch and changes to staring at the ceiling instead of the wall. Many ideas of how to apologize present themselves, but he discards them—too cheesy, too desperate, too distant. This is going to be harder than he’d thought.

Eventually, he decides that he’ll just do it tomorrow. Once he’s slept on it, and had a bit more time to think and to distance himself from his fuck-up.

“Mr. Novak?” A PA catches him as he leaves his trailer, sunglasses on and baseball cap pulled low. It doesn’t exactly help him to hide when he’s leaving the trailer labelled C. Novak, though. “Mr. Winchester wanted to talk to you.”

A shiver runs the length of Castiel’s spine even at the mention of Dean, but no matter how much he craves more time in the man’s captivating presence, he just can’t do it right now. “Tell him I’ve already left,” he mutters, striding away before the PA can try and coerce him over to Dean’s trailer.

He needs time to think, and to clear his head, and neither of those things can happen while he’s around Dean.

~

The next morning, Castiel catches Dean in the makeup trailer.

Dean is shooting a few solo scenes this morning, so his call is earlier than Castiel’s, which is why Castiel finds him nursing a double-strength espresso at six in the morning while he’s being covered in all kinds of products.

Castiel himself could really use another coffee or two right now, considering the near-sleepless night he’d had, thinking either about the sex scene or about how to apologize to Dean today. Maybe turning up this early, while the set is quiet, wasn’t his greatest idea, but. He has to talk to Dean somewhere, sometime, and he may as well do it now.

“Morning, Cas,” Dean says when he sees him, his brow creased in a small frown. The makeup artist tsks under her breath but keeps working. “What are you doing here so early?”

What indeed. This is starting to feel like a worse and worse idea—but he can’t lose his confidence now.

“I actually wanted to talk to you,” he says quietly. “About yesterday.”

Dean’s eyes go wide. For a few seconds, he’s silent, and then he says to the makeup artist, “Can you give us some privacy for a sec?”

She raises her eyebrows, unimpressed, but leaves anyway, and then it’s just the two of them.

The silence stretches out to the point of breaking, both men just watching each other, and then they both speak at once.

“How—how did you find out about the shower?”

“I’m sorry that I said your name yesterday.”

Castiel pauses—that hadn’t been what he was expecting. What does a shower have to do with any of this?

“What do you mean, that you said my name?” Dean interjects before Castiel has a chance to ask, clearly confused.

_What?_

“Yesterday,” Castiel says, “during the scene. I—um… you touched me, and I moaned, and it was your name instead of your character’s. Almost. I caught myself, but… You didn’t hear it?”

“No, I—why did you say my name?”

Castiel clears his throat. Now is maybe not the time to admit that he’d gotten so caught up that the scene had felt like _real_ foreplay. “I was… distracted. But if you didn’t hear me say it, why did you react like you did? Why did you just… stop?”

“I. Um.” Dean rubs the back of his neck; his cheeks burn crimson. “I heard you say my character’s name, and it—I had kind of forgotten that we were acting.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Castiel can only stare at Dean for a few seconds, processing this new information. Then he says, very carefully, “So you’re telling me that, while we were _pretending_ to have sex as our _characters_ , you go so caught up in it that you wanted it to be _real_.”

Dean’s cheeks flush impossibly darker, and he looks away, his fingers wrapping tighter around his coffee cup. “Yes,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry, I know that’s unprofessional, but I just—you’re so attractive, and so nice, and I might honestly have a bit of a crush, and I get it if that makes you uncomfortable, and I can quit if you want me to—“

“Dean.” 

One word, and Dean goes quiet, his gaze flickering to Castiel and then back down to his lap.

“It’s not an issue for me, I promise,” he says gently, trying to temper his giddy excitement at what Dean has just confessed. “I’ve never accidentally said _anyone’s_ real name while I’m acting, so… the fact that I got so distracted with you that I almost moaned your name… I really like you, Dean, but I didn’t think it was reciprocated until, well, just now.”

This time, when Dean looks back up, his eyes are wide and full of tentative hope. “You… you’re into me? But I’m just some B-list indie movie actor, and you’re… you have Oscars. Why me?”

“You doubt yourself too much,” Castiel says. He rolls his chair closer to Dean’s, until their knees are bumping, and rests one hand tentatively on his thigh. Testing the waters. “You’re beautiful and smart and funny and kind and I have really enjoyed getting to know you. I’d like to get to know _more_ of you, outside of work, if you’d like.”

He watches as Dean’s lips curl up into a smile. It’s small, but it’s there—like he can’t quite believe everything that’s happening. “More of me, huh? Yesterday’s sex scene wasn’t enough for you?”

His tone makes it clear that he’s teasing, and Castiel chuckles fondly. “You know what I mean,” he says, then reaches up to cup Dean’s cheek and pulls him into a soft, slow kiss.

It’s everything that yesterday’s kisses weren’t, but it’s just as perfect. Dean’s lips move gently against Castiel’s, and when they separate, he’s smiling, his eyes bright and happy.

“Damn,” he breathes. “You’re fucking amazing, you know that?”

“Mm,” Cas hums, stroking his thumb over Dean’s freckled cheekbone. “I have some idea.”

And then, as the thought reoccurs to him, he asks, “Now what were you saying about that shower?”

Dean’s blush returns in an instant.

“Well…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/180732700184/oohhh-you-posted-that-we-could-request-a-couple-of).


	31. Reverse!Verse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean meets his newly-raised hunter.

Dean’s hunter, his Righteous Man, is all cold blue eyes and the sharpness of steel.

As soon as Dean enters the abandoned barn, in a shower of sparks and with his wings stretched out wide, their invisible feathers saying _mine, you are mine_ , his hunter is awestruck but afraid. Dean can feel it resonating off him in waves, in the wideness of his eyes and the way he lifts his knife.

He is cold and fierce and _perfect_ , because Dean raised him from hell and rebuilt him, putting his dedication and his grace into reassembling every atom into the perfectly imperfect human that is Castiel Novak.

Even as Castiel cocks his salt-loaded shotgun, Dean continues to walk towards him. He wants to see his creation, what has become of him after hell, now that he has been pieced back together and his heart beats once again but his mind retains every single memory of what happened to him.

Dean doesn’t feel the salt rounds; he doesn’t feel the knife.

It’s all amusing to him, really. His hunter has no idea what he’s dealing with—how much Dean already has, and is still yet to, shape his life.

“Who are you?” Cas whispers, after the knife he placed so much trust in has clattered uselessly to the floor.

Dean looks him up and down, taking in the perfection of this creation— _his_ , not his father’s. He is a servant of God, he knows this, but still… it is impossible to look at his Righteous Man and not feel overwhelmed with pride.

“I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition,” he says with a grin, then winks for good measure. “You’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/180783130329/saltnhalo-deans-hunter-his-righteous-man-is).


	32. Art student Cas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas takes a risk with his last assignment.

Today is Castiel’s last art class with Professor Winchester.

It’s a relief to almost be done with his whole degree, but at the same time, he’s been dreading this one class for a number of reasons. Firstly, because this may well be the last time he ever sees the cute professor he’s been crushing on since almost the first day of his course, but secondly…

He’s taken a risk today, and it’s not one he’s sure will pay off.

Once he makes it to the art rooms, he carefully uncovers his canvas and sets it on an empty easel—right up the end of the row, where hopefully no-one will see it. No-one but Dean. Then he takes a seat with the rest of his classmates where, thankfully, all the canvases are turned away from them, a row of wood and white but no paint to be seen.

When Professor Winchester walks in, with his wide smile and easygoing saunter and the green eyes that Cas could stare into for hours, his heart begins to beat double-time against his ribcage. His submission for this final assignment is risky, and it has every possibility of blowing up in his face, but he’s hoping against hope that it doesn’t.

“Morning, guys!” Dean says as he drops his bag onto his desk and leans back against it. His jeans are ripped and paint-splattered and when he grins at his students, it feels like his gaze lingers on Castiel for a fraction longer than everyone else. “How are we all today?”

He gets a variety of responses in turn, but Cas stays quiet—he’s not sure that he trusts himself to speak right now. He’s too nervous.

Today’s class is a short one. It’s mostly for everyone to submit their final assignments and ask any last-minute questions about the exam, and for Dean to wrap up the class. Before he dismisses them all for the last time, though, Dean takes a moment to check out all the different canvases that have been submitted.

The directions for this assignment had simply read: _paint something beautiful_.

Castiel’s breath sticks in his throat as Dean peruses each canvas. The class has fallen to quietly chatting with one another while their teacher takes a moment to look at their work, but not Castiel; his eyes are firmly on Dean.

He watches as Dean’s gaze flicks from one painting, to the next, to the next.

And then he gets to the end of the row, and his gaze falls on Castiel’s canvas.

For a few seconds, Dean just stares.

He stares, and then he reaches out to touch it.

“Who did this?” he asks, and when he lifts his gaze, it lands right on Castiel. There’s no way to discern the emotion in his eyes.

There’s also nowhere to hide.

“I did,” Cas says quietly, half-raising his hand. His classmates turn to look at him, but all he can feel is the burning intensity of Dean’s gaze. He swallows.

Dean looks back down at the canvas, running his fingertips lightly along the edge of it. “Cas, could you stay back for a few minutes?” He doesn’t lift his gaze from the painting. “Everyone else, you guys are free to go.”

His classmates stare at him as they pack their stuff up and leave, talking quietly amongst themselves. Castiel just sits on his chair and stares down at the ground. He feels almost as though he’s going to be sick—there’s no way to know what Dean is going to say to him, how he’s going to react to the painting.

Once the room has emptied out, Dean picks the canvas up off the easel and carries it over to where Castiel is sitting. He pulls up a chair opposite him and sits, the bottom of the canvas resting on his thighs.

For a few long moments, no one speaks. Dean just looks at the painting in his lap, and Cas wonders if it’s possible to have a stress-induced heart attack at the age of 22.

“So this is your ‘something beautiful’, huh?”

This time, when Dean looks up, there’s a smile curling his lips. He spins the canvas around on his thighs to face Castiel, who feels his cheeks heat up.

On the canvas, painted in strokes of acrylic with such care that it looks almost perfectly lifelike, is a single green eye.

It’s half-closed and looking away to the side, framed by thick, sweeping lashes. The side of the nose can be seen, painted in less detail, as can the faint dusting of freckles beneath, but the main focus and painstaking care of the painting is that single eye.

To someone who doesn’t know Dean, it would just look like an intricately detailed painting, but for anyone who _does_ know the art professor… The likeness is unmistakable.

“Yes,” Castiel says, softly but clearly. He made this decision three nights ago, and he’s sticking with it now. “Those eyes have been distracting me for four years now. It was all I could think of when you gave us this assignment.”

Dean’s smile widens. “And this was your way of telling me that? Go big or go home?”

“You could say that, yes.” Dean seems to be taking all of this well, and it’s bolstering Cas’s confidence, but… it’s all for nothing if he can’t take this last step. He gathers up all his courage, takes a deep breath, then asks, “Did you want to get a drink with me sometime?”

Time feels like it stands still. Dean’s eyes widen slightly, but then—

Then he grins, slow and easy and warm. “Once all your finals are over and I’m not your teacher any more? I’d fucking love to get a drink with you, Cas.” 

Castiel’s answering grin must be even wider than Dean’s. “Alright then, after finals. It’s a date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/181007034674/hello-you-talented-fucker-you-id-like-to-request).


	33. Prom invite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> School bad boy Castiel Novak asks Dean out.

“Hey, pretty boy!”

Dean’s cheeks burn at the catcall, and he glares in the offending direction. To no-one’s surprise at all, Castiel Novak and his friends are standing against the corner of the building. All sharp blue eyes and ripped jeans, he’s infuriating and fucking _hot_ , and Dean hates it.

“Fuck off, Novak,” he snaps as he walks past. A few of Novak’s friends _ooh_ , but it doesn’t seem to faze Novak. He just leans back against the wall, the ghost of a smile curving his mouth upwards.

“Come on, Winchester. I just want to talk, don’t be like that.”

Dean takes a moment to think about it, then lets his feet carry him to a halt. Why would Novak want to talk to him? “Get rid of your posse, then,” he says, folding his arms across his chest and turning back towards them.

He’s fully expecting Novak to ignore him, or say no, or even laugh in his face.

Instead, he turns to the guys hanging around him and gestures with his head. For a few seconds, they just stare at him, unable to comprehend that their friend is telling them to get lost so the loner with the hand-me-down books and jacket several sizes too large will talk to him.

Dean can be tough, but he’s not dysfunctional family, motorbike-riding, _Castiel Novak_ tough.

“Do I have to repeat myself?” Novak growls after no one has moved an inch—that’s all it takes to send them scattering, and in a matter of moments it’s just him and Dean, watching each other across the few feet that separate them.

Dean folds his arms tighter and tries to plant his feet. “What do you want?”

“Why don’t you want to talk to me?”

The answer to that one is easy. “Because you’re an asshole,” Dean says simply. The constant teasing, the joking catcalls, the way he looks at Dean sometimes like he’s not sure whether he wants to fight or fuck—it’s too much.

Best just to stay away.

“You wound me, Winchester.” Novak holds his hand up to his heart, a lazy grin tugging his mouth upwards.

Dean rolls his eyes and scowls. “Yeah, we’re done here,” he grits out, moving to turn away. He’s got shit to do—homework and dinner and making sure Sam gets home from the library okay—and he doesn’t have time for this bullshit, no matter how strong the pull of Novak’s orbit is. He steps back—

And Novak reaches out to grab his wrist. “Dean, wait—“

 _Fuck no_.

Dean twists his wrist out of Novak’s grip, then fists his hands in the lapels of that leather jacket and _shoves_ , pushing him backwards a few steps until his back hits the brick wall of the building. “I could kick your ass,” he hisses.

Novak’s eyes widen in shock, as though Dean has managed to catch him off guard, but as soon as the expression had appeared, it fades away again. He raises one eyebrow, a smirk lingering around the corners of his lips and his cocky façade rebuilding itself before Dean’s eyes. “Is that so?”

Fucking smug asshole. Dean pulls him forward and then shoves him back up against the brick one more time, just to get his point across. “What the fuck do you want with me?” he growls, clenching and unclenching his fingers around well-worn leather. Novak is so close, and he smells so fucking good, and it’s so _distracting_.

The smirk widens, until it feels like it’s melting Dean from the inside, rendering him totally powerless against this boy’s easy charm and the attitude that he just can’t resist.

“Well…” Novak draws the syllable out, and it sounds sinful rolling off his tongue. “I was kinda wondering if you wanted to go to prom with me.”

Dean stares, stunned.

Of all the possible responses, of every answer he could have been expecting… that was not one of them.

“You what?” he asks—for clarification, just in case he’s fallen by accident into some alternate universe where _Castiel Novak_ is _into him_.

“You. Me. Prom.” Novak chuckles, way too relaxed for someone currently being pressed up against a wall. “Jeez, Winchester, I know you _play_ dumb, but I didn’t think you were _actually_ stupid.”

Dean narrows his eyes at Castiel—insulting him doesn’t seem like the best way to win over a prospective date. “You want me to kick your ass like I promised?”

“Alright, alright, calm down.” Novak raises his hands, palm out, in a placating gesture. Dean loosens his grip just a little. “I’m not fucking around, I swear. I like you, and I want to take you to prom.”

It’s still taking Dean a while for him to wrap his head around all this. He’d thought Castiel had hated him, and that all the teasing had come from… well, from him being different. For being the out-of-towner with a little brother and a perpetually absent dad, or for having a crush on the school’s bad boy. He still can’t fully let his walls down, not yet.

“And you thought teasing me and hitting on me like it was a joke was the way to get that message across?” he asks, raising one eyebrow.

Novak grins, all practiced confidence as he tips his head back against the brick wall and watches Dean. “It got your attention, didn’t it?

“…Shut up.”

Novak’s looks turns smug, the corners of his mouth curling upwards, and Dean decides then and there, in that very moment, to wipe the expression off his face. Before Castiel can react, Dean tightens his grip on Castiel’s jacket and leans forward, pressing their lips together in a kiss that is clumsy and inexperienced but makes up for it with sheer determination.

Castiel makes a surprised _mmph_ sound against Dean’s lips, but after a second he relaxes into the kiss and begins to take back the reins. The kiss slows, gentles, becomes more of a give-and-take instead of just Dean’s determination to shock him. Fingers curl around Dean’s jaw, a blissfully electric touch, and he sighs against Novak’s lips.

When they part, he’s not sure who seems more surprised. Dean can hardly believe what he just did— _kissed_ Castiel Novak. Castiel’s lips are still parted breathlessly, and he’s watching Dean like he doesn’t quite know what’s going to happen next, but there’s a definite smile in the curve of his mouth.

Novak is the one to break the silence.

“Is that a yes?” he ventures, and while he mostly sounds cocky and sure of the answer, there’s a hint of vulnerability beneath it.

Dean hums, thinking it over, then grins. He lets go of Castiel’s jacket and steps back. “I haven’t decided yet,” he says, even though he kind of already has. It’s worth it for the shocked look on Castiel’s face. “I guess I’ll see you ‘round, Cas.”

When Dean turns and walks away, it’s with a stunned grin on his face and Castiel’s gaze burning into the back of his head.

The next day, Dean tells Castiel that yes, he will go to prom with him. 

Cas kisses him right there in the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/181184094914/teasing-one-word-fic-thing).


	34. Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel finds an old record player in the bunker and teaches Dean how to waltz.

Somewhere in the depths of the bunker, buried in layers of dust and hidden away for years and years, Castiel finds an old record player.

Dean can vouch for the dust—when Cas had brought it up to the library and set it down close to where he was researching, the thing had been coated. He’d watched, distracted from his research, as Cas had meticulously dusted it off and cleaned every part of it until it shone like new. The dust had relocated, tickling Dean’s nose and the back of his throat, but the lingering compulsion to sneeze is easy to forgive when Cas looks so _happy_ , tinkering with the record player until he figures out how to make it work.

He’s brought a stack of records up with him, and he sifts through them now, reading each cover carefully before selecting one. The chosen record is gently extracted from its sleeve and placed onto the turntable.

The warm, scratchy sound of the record player fills the space for a few moments before the opening notes play, and Castiel’s face lights up with quiet happiness. Dean can’t help but smile at the sight—and when Cas looks over at him, he’s not quite quick enough to hide his soft expression.

“I couldn’t find any of your ‘classic rock’ amongst the records,” Cas explains, watching Dean with that soul-searching blue gaze for a moment before looking back at the record player. “I chose something different instead.”

The gentle notes of a waltz spiral out into the air between them, quiet and slow and intimate. Dean’s heart feels as though it skips a beat, and his explanation about how classic rock probably hadn’t been invented yet when the bunker was abandoned dies on his tongue.

“It’s nice,” he says instead, letting his smile return. Cas matches it, the corners of his eyes crinkling further in a way that melts Dean’s heart and makes him think way too seriously about just fucking kissing him.

“Have you ever danced before?”

 The question takes Dean totally by surprise.

“What?” he asks, his note-taking pen dangling from between his fingers, forgotten. “I—no. Have you?”

Cas shrugs nonchalantly and turns his attention back to the record player when it skips slightly. “Of course. I watched humankind for thousands of years, Dean,” he says, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I managed to pick up the basic waltz.”

“Oh.” The image of Castiel sweeping across a dancefloor rises, unbidden, to the front of Dean’s mind. As an angel who is also a practiced warrior and one of the most sure-footed people he’s ever met, there’s no doubt that Cas would be damn good at dancing.

He swallows and looks down at his notes for a second, trying to collect himself. When he looks back up, Cas it watching him again, with that soft blue gaze and the lingering smile around his eyes.

“Would you like me to teach you?” he asks, his voice barely carrying over the music.

 _No. No, this is a colossally bad idea, and you’re just going to embarrass yourself_ , Dean’s brain tells him.

“Yes,” he finds himself saying, guided by his traitorous heart.

Cas’s half-smile widens into a happy grin, and he stands, double-checking that the record is going to keep playing before turning his full attention to Dean. He extends one hand.

Dean’s heart is beating hard against his ribcage, and his throat feels dry. All he can focus on is that hand, palm-up, Cas patiently waiting for him.

 _I’m really doing this_ , he thinks, and takes it.

Castiel guides him out of his chair and over to a more open space in the library, away from the table. The music follows them, lyrical notes spiraling outwards and hovering through the air like each lingering chime of a bell. Dean’s nervousness prickles in his fingertips and low in his stomach as Cas guides him, until they’re face to face, their palms pressed together. Dean really should have wiped his off on his jeans before agreeing to this, but it’s too late now.

“I’m going to lead you,” Cas murmurs, his voice low and quiet and curling pleasantly in Dean’s gut to replace the nerves settled there. “Put your free hand up on my shoulder.”

Without thinking, Dean obeys. Cas is warm, even through the layers of his shirt and suit and trenchcoat. He feels safe.

A hand settles on Dean’s waist, broad and gentle and nothing like being touched by a woman. He can’t help but melt into it, let Cas pull him closer until their breaths are almost mingling, until Dean can feel Cas’s body heat radiating outwards, until he’s sure that Cas should be able to hear the insistent pounding of his heart.

“The waltz is simple.” Cas’s voice is still low and soft and intimate, and Dean barely manages to suppress his shiver at the sound of it. “You step back, to the side, then together. Then forward, to the side, then together.”

He demonstrates a few steps of it, his body guiding Dean’s effortlessly, one thigh slotting between Dean’s as they move backwards in perfect sync.

And then, when Dean goes to follow him to the side, he promptly steps on Cas’s foot.

“Shit,” he mutters, quickly fixing his feet and frowning in concentration. “Sorry. I can do this.”

Cas’s voice is all soft honey and gentle amusement, and he gives Dean’s hand a quick squeeze. “I know you can. Keep going.”

With Cas’s guidance, and a lot of concentration, Dean slowly gets better and better, until he’s able to keep up with Cas’s patient steps without standing on his toes. Soon enough, the movements happen without Dean having to think about them—each step, each turn, the warmth of Cas’s hands and his body, and the way his breath puffs lightly against the hair that curls behind Dean’s ear. They move together perfectly, a gentle push and pull as Cas guides them across the floor and Dean follows.

All of a sudden, he’s much less aware of the dancing itself, and much more aware of _Cas_.

The ex-angel is careful and practiced, the dance flowing as though it’s as natural to him as breathing, walking, fighting. When Dean meets his gaze, the corners of his eyes crinkle, and his smile is intimate. Soft.

The final notes of the song curl out into the air and then gently dissipate, leaving silence in their wake. Cas brings them slowly to a stop, to perfect stillness, and then they’re simply standing in this embrace—not dancing, just surrounded by the quiet scratch of the record and the weighted silence.

Cas’s hand shifts against Dean’s waist, and Dean’s breath hitches in the still air. His gaze drops to Cas’s lips, and again, he thinks about doing it. About closing his eyes, bridging the gap between them, and just kissing him.

Dean’s eyes slide closed, and his lips part. _I’m going to do it_ , he thinks. _I’m gonna kiss Cas_. 

Castiel kisses him first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/181368428764/torpe).


	35. Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel spots some conveniently placed mistletoe on a cold winter's night.

Dean’s nose and fingers are freezing in the cold night air as he follows Cas along the street, away from the bar where they’ve spent most of their Christmas Eve. His boyfriend is a few steps ahead, and Dean grumbles under his breath, pushing his hands deeper into his pockets. _Fuckin’ winter_ , he thinks, hurrying to catch up. He’ll be glad once they’re back in their room at the motel, with the heating cranked up and maybe a few glasses of crappy eggnog to accompany the Christmas movies he’s promised to show Cas tonight.

All that sounds like a much better evening than walking around at night on one of the coldest days they’ve seen in a long time, but the bar had been Dean’s suggestion, so he’s not really in any place to complain.

Besides, as long as he’s with Cas, nothing seems quite so bad.

When he catches up with his boyfriend—who can still walk _way_ too fast after the number of drinks they’ve had tonight—Cas smiles over at him and offers Dean his hand. “Really?” Dean mutters, pulling a face. “It’s too cold for that, Cas. I’m gonna lose my fingers.”

He takes his hand out of his pocket anyway to hold Cas’s hand, and the way that Castiel’s smile widens makes the impending frostbite fully worth it. They cross the street side by side and cut through the park to get to their motel, leaving their footprints in the otherwise smooth snow that covers the ground. The late at night on Christmas Eve, the moonlight lends the quiet park a sort of ethereal, wintry beauty.

They’re almost out the other side of the park when Castiel tugs Dean gently off the path, towards a small stone gazebo that sits, silvered and delicate, amongst the snow.

Confused, Dean looks over to his boyfriend to find that Cas’s face has lit up, his eyes sparkling as he pulls them into the arched entrance to the gazebo. “Cas? What are we doing?” he asks as they come to a stop beneath stone and snow.

Cas grins and points upwards; when Dean follows his gaze, he sees that someone has tied a sprig of mistletoe above the archway of the gazebo, white berries twinkling innocently in the night air.

“Really?” Dean chuckles fondly and shakes his head, looking back down at his boyfriend. “Of course you spotted this, you damn sap. You know you don’t need mistletoe to be able to kiss me, right?”

“I know,” Cas says quietly, cupping Dean’s cheek with his free hand. His fingers are just as cold as Dean’s, but he still leans into the touch as Cas’s thumb skims gently over his cheekbone. Castiel’s grin softens into a smile, soft and intimate, as he whispers, “I like having an excuse to, though.”

Cas may have been the one to pull them under the mistletoe, but it’s Dean who closes the distance between them, pulling his boyfriend close and kissing him in the snowy-covered quiet of the park beneath the winter moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/181395173799/basorexia).


	36. Deaf Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean drags himself out of his own grave, and finds that he still can't hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mentions of Dean in hell.

When Dean claws his way out of the earth with hands once again made whole, he feels the sunlight on his face for the first time in what feels like forty years. He drags himself out of his own grave with nothing but the strength of his arms, and as he lies on the ground and stares up at the blue sky, gasping for breath so long denied, it’s with the blood pounding in his head and his ears ringing.

He remembers all of hell—the torture, the demons’ wicked, twisted faces, the feeling of a blood-slick knife handle pressed into his palm. He remembers how his lungs had burned with the force of his own screams. Not being able to hear himself break had been one small mercy in a sea of pure, unending agony.

The sun beats down on him, and as his breaths even out, the ringing slowly quiets. It doesn’t go away—never has. Even now that his body is whole again, put back together by some miracle as though it had never been rent apart in the first place…

He still can’t hear.

There’s a gas station nearby, and he walks there on legs that don’t quite feel like legs yet. From the outside, it looks abandoned, and no one comes running when Dean breaks the window beside the front door. In the bathroom, he washes the dirt from his hands and stares at himself in the mirror. His skin is whole and unscarred, but his shoulder burns, the red handprint seared into his skin.

His blood pounds in his ears.

The TV flickers on while he’s packing himself a bag, static lighting up the dark screen. He switches it off, but the gas station begins to rumble, in a vibration that he can’t hear but feels deep in his bones. It grows and builds until the whole building shakes with it, as Dean closes his eyes and lets it wash over him. The sensation is like nothing he’s ever felt before, commanding but comforting, _almost_ something he can understand somewhere in his heart—

And as quickly as it had started, it stops once again. When Dean opens his eyes, every window in the building has been shattered.

He leaves the gas station, the memory of that bone-deep feeling still seared into his soul, and the next day he finds himself inking sigils into the wall of an abandoned barn. The exploding of the lights is the first warning he gets before the barn doors blow open.

His salt rounds do nothing against this creature that holds the image of a man but is something much more powerful. “Who are you?” he asks, lips forming around words that he can’t hear, the sound of his heartbeat thudding in his ears.

The man raises his hands, and Dean flinches back.

 _I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition_.

The signing throws Dean for a second, but not for long enough that he can’t come to his senses. When he sinks the demon-killing knife into the creature’s chest, he receives nothing more than a smile in return. Bobby sinks to the floor with a mere touch, and then it’s just Dean and this being, and Dean has no more tricks up his sleeve.

 _We need to talk, Dean_. The man spells out Dean’s name in a quick flash of fingers, and it seems as natural to him as breathing. _Alone_.

Dean finds out that the man’s name is Castiel, and that he is an angel of the Lord.

He also finds out that Castiel is the one responsible for rescuing him from hell and putting him back together, piece by piece.

 _You didn’t fix my ears?_ he asks, and it’s partially a joke, but also partly not. He flashes Castiel a quick, tight smile, but his heart twists inside his chest. This could have been his one chance to know what it’s like to be a hearing hunter.

Castiel watches his hands as he signs out his question, then meets Dean’s eyes. He tilts his head, as though he doesn’t quite understand Dean’s question.

 _You didn’t need to be ‘fixed,’_ he signs in response, and what kind of angel uses air quotes? _You are the way God intended you to be created. There is nothing incomplete or imperfect about you._

Dean stares at him. It feels like there’s a knot in his chest, some emotion he can’t put a name to that twists inside him and steals his breath. Even if he wanted to speak, he doubts that he could get any sound out past the lump in his throat.

 _Okay_ , is all that he says in response. But even though he does his best to brush it off, because he’s so far from perfect that it’s almost laughable…

Castiel’s words stay with him for many years to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/181500442064/deaf-one-word-fic-thing).


	37. Enochian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel struggles with telling Dean how he feels.

The first time Castiel is able to put a name to his emotions, they’re driving through the middle of nowhere on their way back to the bunker after a hunt.

There’s blood on their clothes and dirt beneath their nails, but even so, as he watches Dean where he sits behind the wheel of the Impala, Castiel is suddenly struck by this previously-unnamed feeling. In the moonlight and the occasional headlights of the passing cars, even exhausted as he is, Dean is beautiful, soft in this quiet moment, and—

And Castiel loves him.

His head spins with the realization—who would have thought an angel would ever be capable of proper love? That’s certainly what it feels like, though, his heart pounding with the strength of his emotions.

 _I love you_ , he mouths, against the darkness and the yellow wash of headlights over the empty highway, testing out the shape of the words.

It feels right.

~

Even though Castiel knows, it takes him a long time to be able to _say_ it.

This time, they’re tangled up in bed together, Dean’s bedsheets wrapped around them and sweat cooling on their skin. Castiel trails his fingers over Dean’s shoulder, smiling when he shivers at the touch. “Gettin’ all touchy-feely with me still, Cas?” Dean asks, his voice a low rumble and his smile curving against Castiel’s throat.

“You know I can’t resist,” Castiel says into Dean’s hair, because he _can’t_. Dean is beautiful, and he’s _Castiel’s_ , and he’d never known he could feel so strongly for _anyone_ , but here he is with his righteous man and even though he knows hundreds of languages and thousands of ways to say it, somehow the idea of Dean _knowing_ just how he feels is—

It’s terrifying. Exhilarating. Humbling. Every emotion Castiel has ever felt, everything he’s ever experienced, it all pales in comparison to having Dean _know_.

 _I need to tell him_ , he thinks, and the words are right there on the tip of his tongue, but—

 _“Olani hoath ol_ ,” he says instead, shaping his thoughts into Enochian. The air vibrates with the words’ power, and now that he’s said it out loud, it feels more tangible, more real, but he still doesn’t think he’s quite ready for Dean to know.

“What does that mean?” Dean asks, his words soft and slurred by tiredness.

“It doesn’t matter,” Castiel whispers, even though it does, it matters more than anything in the whole of creation. “Go to sleep, Dean.”

 _Perhaps next time_ , he thinks.

~

When Castiel finally says it, the moment presents itself simply, riding in on the coattails of dawn and catching Castiel completely by surprise.

He’s thought for a while that the first time he tells Dean he loves him (at least, in English) should be some grand romantic gesture. A date to a nice restaurant, or a picnic under the stars, or parked at a lookout with the whole world spread out beneath them.

Instead, it happens in the kitchen of the bunker, as he watches Dean make coffee.

His boyfriend is wearing nothing more than his boxers and his favourite blue bathrobe as he fixes two mugs of coffee. One of the mugs is the one he got Castiel for Christmas, decorated with a few cartoonish bees and their dotted flight paths, and it’s all so perfect and domestic and lovely that it hits Castiel all at once.

Dean turns and hands him his mug of steaming hot coffee with a smile and a kiss to his cheek, and what Castiel means to say is “thank you,” but what he says instead is:

“I love you.”

Dean blinks at him, and then his mouth curves into a sweet, happy smile. He presses a kiss to Castiel’s lips, and when he pulls back, his expression is soft. His eyes sparkle. 

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/181628234819/enochian-for-heidi-reads-them-all-the-first).


	38. President Cas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secret Service agent Dean is called in to see the President.

“Special Agent Winchester? Come with me.”

Dean straightens up at his post and raises his eyebrows. “Now, sir?” he asks of his boss—the gruff-looking Special Agent Singer who has been in charge of the Presidential detail for as long as anyone can remember. It’s not often that he directly singles out agents, so Dean can’t be sure if this is a good thing or not.

Singer just inclines his head silently. He’s not going to get any extra information, then—but he’s gotten used to that, after so long in the Secret Service. There are always things going on that are above his pay grade or none of his business. He steps away from his post and follows Singer when he turns and walks away, surreptitiously straightening his suit. Wherever they’re going, whoever Singer might be taking him to see, he needs to look like the damn professional that he is.

They walk in silence through the corridors of the West Wing, and Dean tries not to analyze the situation too much in his head, but when they reach the doors of the Oval Office—

“The President has requested to speak with you.”

Nervous butterflies erupt in Dean’s stomach.

President Novak is the kind of guy who will always take time out of his day to chat with his employees—be it a wave here, a ‘hello’ there, or even just the uncanny way he manages to remember little details about the lives of so many of his staff members. For someone tasked with running a whole country, it’s pretty fucking impressive.

But with Dean, it’s different. Always has been, ever since Dean started his detail here.

The first few times they’d met, he’d been little more than a fringe guard. Someone tasked with covering one of the many possible areas and angles, counting the number of tiles on the floor to keep himself entertained until the fleeting moment when the President and his inner team would pass.

Dean had seen him in photos, or on television, but the first time he met President Novak in person, that was it. His colleagues tease him about his unrequited crush, and he’s become the butt of many jokes after he’s been caught staring when his attention is elsewhere, or when he manages to stumble over the briefest of interactions that he has with the guy.

But not long after the first time that Dean crossed the President’s path, he was promoted to the recon team, and then to the inner team, tasked with being President Novak’s personal bodyguards. Being around the President more often makes it easier for Dean to talk to him (he’s _almost_ managed to get over his awkwardness) and, admittedly, stare, but it also means that he gets the opportunity to pay closer attention to President Novak’s habits.

And if Dean happens to catch him staring once, or twice, or a dozen times throughout the day, well. It’s an interesting fact that he files away for a rainy day—when he’s not tasked with literally having the guy’s life in his hands. In this line of work, distractions and emotions are far from ideal.

Dean may have failed more than a little on both fronts, but he’d thought that he’d managed to do an okay job at hiding his infatuation from the man himself.

Considering he’s being called into the Oval Office alone and in the middle of his shift, he’s starting to suspect that that might not be the case.

Special Agent Singer steps back, taking up his position outside the office, and nods towards the closed doors. “Whenever you’re ready, Winchester.”

 

 _Whenever you’re ready_. As if Dean feels ready in the slightest to face the most powerful man in the United States—the very man Dean has been maybe kind of pining over ever since he joined the President’s detail.

But he has to get it over with sometime, and decent guy or not, the President is not someone who should be kept waiting.

Dean takes a deep breath, steels his nerves, and pushes the door open.  

Even though Dean has been working in the White House for more than a few months now, he’s only seen the inside of the Oval Office a handful of times, and this one is no less nerve-wracking than the others. In fact, it’s _more_ nerve-wracking, because once he’s closed the door behind him and turned to face the rest of the room, it’s then that he realizes—it really only is him and President Novak in here.

The man himself stands up from his desk when he Dean enters, and for the first time Dean has ever seen, he actually looks a little… nervous. He straightens the cuffs of his shirt that are rolled halfway up his forearms and then touches his half-loosened tie as though he’d forgotten to tighten it before Dean entered—not that Dean minds in the slightest. With the messy hair and the more casual look, he might _almost_ be able to forget that he’s standing in front of the President of the United States.

 

 _Almost_.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Dean asks, and even though they’ve had countless comfortable interactions, he can’t help slipping back into the respectful address.

Novak gives him a quick smile and gestures to the chair opposite his desk. “Welcome, Special Agent Winchester. Please, have a seat. And I’ve told you, you’re welcome to call me Castiel.”

God, that shouldn’t be enough to make Dean’s heart beat faster. He nods jerkily and crosses the room to the desk, taking the offered seat. “Okay, si— _Castiel_.” He can feel his cheeks burning with embarrassment—this is _not_ how a Secret Service agent should be behaving. _Get a fucking grip, Winchester_. “Why did you want to see me?” he asks, before he can make any more an idiot of himself.

Now that Dean is seated, Novak sits down as well, resting his clasped hands on his desk. He doesn’t fidget or look away, and there aren’t any physical tells that he can see, but Dean begins to get the niggling feeling in his gut that something is wrong.

“We need to talk about your position on my security team,” Novak says finally. His gaze is steady and even, but it feels like the calm façade is born from years of practice. Whatever direction this conversation is going in, the President seems… off. Not his usual self.

Dean swallows. “What do you mean, sir?”

The corners of Novak’s mouth turn down. His voice, when he next speaks, is soft, but his words are blunt.

“I’m having you removed from the White House security detail.”

Dean stares. He stares and he stares and he stares some more, because he can’t quite figure out what the _fuck_ just came out of Novak’s mouth. He’s being removed? What? Why?

“Are you firing me?” he asks, dumbstruck. He knows he’s let himself be distracted by the President more than is probably reasonable, but he hadn’t thought he was _that_ bad at his job. Why the fuck is he being removed from the detail?

There’s a hint of guilt in Novak’s expression, but still, he sticks to his guns. “I—not technically, but—“

“ _Why?_ ”

President Novak closes his eyes, takes a deep breath in, then exhales. When he opens them, he’s watching Dean with a _look_ in his eyes that Dean can’t even put a name to. “Because I can’t have you around me like this anymore, Dean.”

And suddenly this meeting has become incredibly personal.

“What do you mean, around you?” Dean asks quietly, leaning back in his chair. Novak’s words feel like a physical blow, one that has sent him reeling and that he feels he needs to recover from. He’d thought that they’d been friendly at the least, and had some kind of… _connection_ at the most, but now…

Now it seems as though that’s not the case at all.

For the first time, Novak’s composure seems to crack. He runs his fingers through his hair, looks up at the ceiling for a second, then rests his arms back on the desk. “I _mean_ ,” he begins, sounding more vulnerable than Dean has ever heard him, “that while I’m working, I can’t have you near me. You’re distracting, Dean—I’ve seen you watching me, I’ve seen how you look at me and heard how to talk to me, and I can’t get it out of my head. It puts me in a difficult position, because I can’t afford to be distracted or worrying while I’m supposed to be working. I can’t concentrate when I know you’re close by, part of my security team, putting yourself in harm’s way because of _me_.”

“I do it because it’s my _job_ ,” Dean protests hotly, his cheeks burning with shame and embarrassment. It’s clear that the President wants nothing to do with his stupid infatuation, but Dean doesn’t protect him because of some fucking crush, he does it because he took an oath to serve his country and if this is how he does so then so fucking be it.

Novak raises his hands placatingly. “I know,” he acknowledges, “and you’re very good at what you do. But you… you can’t say you haven’t noticed it. Neither of us are working as well as we should, and we can’t keep operating under these conditions—you distracted from your job and me constantly worrying about what could happen if my life really _were_ to be threatened.”

“I’d protect you!” Dean snaps, more forcefully than he meant to. “I might have a dumb crush, okay, but I’d still take a bullet for you. I’d still be able to protect you and do my job.”

“And that’s exactly why I can’t keep you on my team!” Novak shoves back from his desk and stands, palms planted flat on the table as he leans forward towards Dean. His hair is a mess, his eyes wide and voice shaking enough that it makes Dean think _fuck, this is really serious_. “Because it’s bad enough to know that there are people out there whose job it is to die in my place, but knowing that _you’re_ one of those people? If you died protecting me, Dean, I would never forgive myself.”

_What?_

Castiel’s last words echo through Dean’s head in the ensuing silence that stretches out between them. The President’s ragged breathing is the only thing that fills the air—and Dean feels as though he’s holding his breath, as though he’s not quite sure what just happened or, more importantly, what all of it _means_.

“You’d never forgive yourself… If I died?” he asks, his words quiet. “Why me?”

Slowly, all the fire and the determination drains out of Castiel. He sits back down, and when he looks in Dean’s direction, he can’t look him in the eye. Instead, he focuses on a point just over Dean’s right shoulder and addresses that.

“Because I like you, Dean. I like you a lot. And every night, I fall asleep wondering if tomorrow will be the day you’re forced to put your life on the line in exchange for mine, and I feel sick at the thought of it.” He looks down at his hands, folded tightly together on the table in front of him. “I understand if that makes you uncomfortable. If you’re not fully interested in having a relationship with a man, or if my feelings are too strong for you. I would understand if you wanted to resign based on what I’ve just told you. But I can’t…”

His voice cracks.

“I can’t keep you on as part of my security team. It’s more than I can take.”

He finishes talking and, once again, there’s that fucking silence. The silence that seems so _full_ and so _heavy_ that it drapes around Dean’s shoulders and smothers him until he can barely organise his thoughts, until all he can think about is the way Castiel had _sounded_ when he’d told Dean that. Like he was watching his world fall apart in front of his eyes.

Dean takes a deep breath.

“So, just to be clear,” he says. “You’re firing me because you’re into me, and knowing that I’m tasked with protecting you and putting myself in danger for you is worrying you. Yes?”

Novak nods. Fuck, this is so much more touchy-feely than Dean is ever comfortable getting, but for once, he might not be the most emotionally constipated person in the room. It sounds like they’ve both been too stupid to make the first move—though, why the _President of the United States_ is into someone like _Dean_ , he’s not quite sure.

“And if I wasn’t working for you, you’d take me out on a date. Yes?”

Novak pauses, lips pressed into a thin, nervous line, then says, “Yes.”

Slowly, Dean lets himself smile, until his lips are curled up into a wide grin and his heart is double-beating happily in his chest. “In that case, I quit,” he says, standing up from his chair. He reaches for someone’s discarded business card on the corner of the desk and a pen, and scribbles his number onto it before handing the card to a dumbstruck Castiel. “And you can take me out for dinner on Friday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/182070078934/for-rainbowskittle-special-agent-winchester).


	39. Beekeeper Cas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean meets the eclectic new beekeeper at the local farmers' market.

Every Saturday, Dean goes down to the local farmers’ market.

It’s not, contrary to Sam’s gloating, because he’s ‘finally realized that you can’t live entirely on cheeseburgers, Dean,’ nor is it because he has the money to buy produce that’s locally grown (he doesn’t, but he still tries to buy a thing or two here and there).

No, he goes to the farmers’ market because of the beekeeper.

The beekeeper is new to town, and had moved himself and his apiary into the old farming property down by the river. Dean had found out about his stall, ‘The Business of Bees,’ when Sam had dragged him down to the farmers’ market two months ago so that he could buy his organic kale, or some shit. Honestly, he doesn’t remember much from that day apart from piercing blue eyes and a voice like whiskey over gravel that has stuck with him every night since.

Ever since he discovered the farmers’ market and the eclectic, attractive beekeeper, Dean has been head over heels. He _knows_ that he’s into this guy, and he would _love_ to take him out to dinner sometime, but… he’s got absolutely no idea _how_. All the guys he’s ever been with have started out as friends or hookups, but to ask a stranger out on a date?

Dean views himself as a confident man, but he’s got zero experience in this area.

So he does his best to muddle his way through—maybe it’ll be easier if they start out as friends?

The second time he had visited ( _without_ his nosy moose of a brother), he had found out that the beekeeper’s name was Castiel. Every week after that, he would make a few minutes of small talk, then buy a jar of honey before his cheeks could get too red and beat a hasty retreat.

Castiel’s jokes are terrible and he’s always grumpy before he’s had his morning coffee and he doesn’t understand half of the pop culture references Dean makes, but that’s okay, because Dean is smitten and he spends his whole week looking forward to Saturday, when he can talk to Cas and see him smile.

(And then go home and stare forlornly at the ever-expanding shelf of honey that he’s collecting, because even though there’s no way he can eat it all himself, it’s weird to hang around and talk to the guy without buying anything, right?)

The weeks turn into months, and a few minutes of small talk gradually becomes over an hour of talking, interrupted only whenever Castiel has to serve another customer. Dean watches him smile and talk with animation about his bees and his honey and thinks, _wow, I really am fucked_.

Today isn’t the right time to ask Cas out—the guy seems nervous about something, and Dean doesn’t want to catch him in a bad mood just in case everything goes pear-shaped, because even if Cas doesn’t want to date him, he hopes that they can at least stay friends. It’s starting to get late now, and Dean has been here for almost two hours. Before he can make his usual honey purchase and say goodbye to Castiel for another week, though, Cas stops him in his tracks.

“I have something for you,” he says, his cheeks tinged faintly with pink as he rummages around behind his table. When he pops back up, it’s with a small, cloth-wrapped bundle in his palms. Dean tries not to shiver at the brush of Cas’s fingers as he hands over the gift.

It’s solid, but not heavy, and Dean can feel Cas’s gaze on him as he unwraps the cloth with curious fingers, draping the fabric off the edges of his hand to reveal the gift.

In Dean’s palm is a heart-shaped beeswax candle. Engraved carefully into the wax in cursive are the words: _Bee mine?_

It’s cheesy and adorable and when Dean leaves the farmers’ market another hour later with the candle in his pocket, Cas’s number in his phone and a date scheduled for tonight, he can’t keep the smile off his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/182130435419/congrats-on-500-followers-my-one-word-prompt-is).


	40. Acrobat Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean, in town with his circus troupe, meets a beautiful, tattooed bartender named Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on [c-kaeru's](http://c-kaeru.tumblr.com) art of [tattooed bartender Cas](http://c-kaeru.tumblr.com/post/182169635001/i-rewatched-the-greatest-showman-and-had-some).

Dean and his troupe don’t spend too much time in any city.

Their talent and prowess makes them highly sought after, and they’ve travelled almost all the way across America, putting on performances in every city they pass. They arrive, set up, dazzle the crowd for a handful of nights, and then as quickly as they had appeared, they disappear again, bound for another city, another audience, another world of their very own creation.

Amongst all the bustle of a circus troupe, though, the performers manage to find plenty of time to relax. Dean’s favourite way to spend his downtime is with a nice, cold beer and the company of his friends, in whichever bar takes their fancy that night. They’re well known, especially Dean with his pretty face and acrobatic prowess, and it often means that they have no shortage of admirers wherever they go. Most of the time, those who proposition him are gently turned down, but on the rare nights when there are no performances scheduled for the next day, some attractive guy or girl may get lucky.

Tonight is one of those nights, when the performers can let loose a little.

They’ve found a bar in the inner city, packed so tightly with locals that Dean and his friends have to squeeze their way in amongst them. Once they’re recognized as being part of the circus visiting town, room is quickly made for them, and they end up at the bar, chatting amiably with those who have taken an interest in them. Dean rests his forearms on the bar and waits for the dark-haired bartender to turn around so that he can order himself a drink.

When the man finally turns, a bottle of alcohol held in each hand, Dean’s jaw drops.

He’s not quite sure where to look first, his eyes raking over the man as he tries to take in as much as possible, in as short a time as possible. The white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose lines of black ink on his forearms? The suspenders that perfectly frame his broad shoulders? The dark, mussed hair or the confident way he moves or the blue eyes that roam over the patrons and eventually settle on Dean?

 _Fuck_ , they’re making eye contact now, and Dean is still staring. He tries his best to pick his jaw up off the top of the bar and instead gives him what he hopes is a charming smile—though his brain is still fucking scrambled, so he has no idea if he’s actually managed it.

The bartender holds Dean’s gaze for a long moment, then sets aside the bottles and walks over to where Dean is sitting with even, deliberate steps.

“What can I get you?” he asks, and as if his appearance hadn’t been enough to pull Dean in completely, his voice is like whiskey and sex and it sends a shiver straight down Dean’s spine.

“I, um,” he says eloquently, and the corners of the man’s mouth turn up in the faintest hint of an amused smile. Dean bites his bottom lip. “Whatever you recommend?”

The faint smile becomes something more solid, and the guy nods his head. “I can do that.” He turns away and reaches for one of the bottles on the shelf above his head. Dean works with a lot of pretty, attractive people for a living, but none of them even come close to this man who has captivated Dean in a single moment, with his tattoos and his sex-hair and the quiet, confident way he holds himself.

Dean can only watch, mesmerized, as he scoops a handful of ice into a glass, spins the bottle casually against his palm, then uncaps it and pours out a few fingers of whiskey. The golden ambience of the bar lighting illuminates the liquid and haloes the beautiful man, and it takes all of Dean’s willpower not to blurt out an invitation back to his hotel right in that moment.

Instead, he waits until the man returns with his drink, the glass slid across the bartop with a confident hand and a wink that takes Dean’s breath away, and then he says: “I’m Dean. What’s your name?”

It’s not the smoothest line he’s ever used, but his brain is a little too overwhelmed to come up with anything that’s not short, sweet and to the point.

Luckily, the guy doesn’t seem to mind. He leans his hip against the bar and folds his arms across his chest (black ink contrasts beautifully with the white shirt and suspenders, and Dean’s mouth goes dry).

“My name is Castiel. You can call me Cas.”

However straightforward Dean’s introduction may have been, it must have worked. They spend the rest of the night talking, in between Cas having to serve customers, and when the bar finally closes in the early hours of the morning, Dean is one of the last patrons to leave. When he does, Cas accompanies him—though it takes a while longer than anticipated to reach Dean’s hotel room, since they get a little distracted in the neighbouring alleyway by kisses and wandering hands. They’re disheveled even before they get back to the hotel, and there Dean spends the rest of the night showing Cas just how beneficial it is to be a professional acrobat.

When he wakes up the next morning, Cas is still there, sleep-drowsy and sprawled out on the white sheets. Every waking minute after that night that isn’t spent working, they spend together, the two of them almost inseparable. Cas is beautiful, yes, but he’s also quick-witted with the driest humour Dean has ever encountered, and so quietly _kind_ that it makes Dean melt.

He knows he can’t leave Cas behind—the very thought of it makes his heart ache in his chest. On their last night in the city, he stays up late with Castiel, the two of them making love and then talking well into the early hours of the morning.

The next day, when the circus packs up and moves on once again, it’s with a talented bartender accompanying them—a man with an array of unique tricks who is more than capable of holding his own amongst the troupe, and just so happens to be the star acrobat’s new boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/182190205489/c-kaeru-i-rewatched-the-greatest-showman-and-had).


	41. Crow Familiar Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The adventures of witch Dean and his crow familiar Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first ficlet has art from the amazing Foxymoley and c-kaeru, so go give the originals a like or a rebagle to let them know how incredible they are! ([first art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18067289/chapters/42702002?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#comment_214712801) by [Foxymoley](http://foxymoley.tumblr.com), inspired by talk of Cas in a badass outfit) ([second art](http://c-kaeru.tumblr.com/post/183360200946/and-then-one-morning-dean-wakes-up-to-find-that) by [c-kaeru](http://c-kaeru.tumblr.com))

Every morning, there is a crow that comes to Dean’s window.

Sometimes it’s early, before the sun has fully risen, and Dean will wake to find a memento on his windowsill; a coin, a key, a particularly pearlescent button. Other times, the crow arrives when he’s awake, announcing its presence with a _caw_ muffled by whatever it’s holding in its beak.

Those times, Dean can’t help but grin fondly. He’ll set aside whatever herbs or potion he’s working on and make his way over to the window, unlatching and opening it with a wave of his fingers since he’s usually too eager to wait. He’s got a collection of trinkets like these now, and every morning he looks forward to the visit from his crow to see what the new dawn will bring. Every familiar courts their chosen witch differently, and the crow’s method is just so damn sweet—especially with the way it ruffles its wings proudly whenever Dean says “thank you.”

Their little dance continues for several weeks. Just like the variance with the crow’s arrival time, whether or not it hangs around also varies. Sometimes it leaves right away, giving Dean a somewhat-apologetic _caw_ before hopping off the windowsill and flying away.

Other times, though, it stays.

It’ll keep Dean company as he works, nestled in a puff of black feathers by the open window or perched on the back of Dean’s chair, curiously watching everything he does—especially if he’s working with metal or glass that happens to catch the light nicely. He gets used to the crow’s visits, and the ever-expanding collection of feathers and coins and beads and whatever else the crow deems fit to be given to Dean as a gift.

And then one morning, Dean wakes up to find that the visitor perched on his windowsill is no longer a crow at all.

Instead, there is a man lounging on the sill of the open window, back leaning against the side of the windowframe and one leg dangling off the edge into the open air. His hair is as dark as his feathers were, and he’s barefoot and bare-chested, wearing a pair of dark-wash jeans that hug strong thighs and a fantastic ass.

Dean sucks in a shocked breath, and when the man turns his head sharply, his wide eyes are the exact same shade of blue as those of Dean’s crow.

“It’s you,” Dean breathes, and the man’s lips quirk up into a tiny smile. He swings his legs over so that he’s sitting facing Dean, his bare feet almost brushing the floor of Dean’s bedroom.

“Yes,” he says, and his voice is deep and serious, but there’s a lightness in his eyes that makes Dean’s breath catch in his throat. “It’s me. My name is Castiel.”

“I’m Dean.”

The smile becomes wider, more solid. “I know.”

 _Of course he knows, he’s been visiting me for the last month in his animal form_. Dean feels his cheeks flush red, and he clears his throat. “Is, uh. Is there a reason you’re… like this today?” He gestures to all of Castiel, from his rumpled hair to his bare chest to the jeans that hug his legs in all the right places. _Fuck_.

Castiel reaches for his pocket, but whatever he pulls out stays hidden away in his carefully-curled fist. “There is,” he confirms, but now there’s a hint of nervousness in his voice. “I… I’ve been courting you as my witch for a while, and I really like you, and I was thinking that maybe…”

He trails off and swallows, as though his words are failing him. Instead, he slowly uncurls his fingers, until Dean sees what he’s been keeping hidden in his hand.

It’s a necklace, made of silver-threaded black cord. Hanging from it is a coin, polished so brightly that it gleams even in the early morning sunlight, and a single blue-black feather.

“I thought you might like to be my witch,” Castiel says quietly.

There was never any doubt in Dean’s mind that, when this moment came, he’d turn the crow familiar down.

“Of course I will, Cas.”

 

 ~~~

 

“Cas. Babe. You know I need you there tonight.”

The crow perched at the foot of Dean’s bed ruffles its feathers and lets an indignant-sounding _caw_. Dean sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I know you don’t like ‘dressing up,’ but I can’t help it. It’s a big event, and if I want a chance at tenure, I need to be there, and I can’t exactly show up without my familiar.”

Cas makes a low, unhappy sound, and then between one second and the next, he shifts. There’s a frown creasing his brows, and his arms are folded tightly across his chest. His clear displeasure helps to distract Dean from the fact that he is _very_ naked. “I never enjoy these events,” he grumbles, his voice low and rough from having spent most of the day in his crow form. “I don’t like wearing suits. They’re too tight and you don’t let me put shiny things on them.”

Dean can’t help himself—the corner of his mouth quirks up into a smile. “That’s because if I let you do that, you’d end up wearing a disco ball as a suit,” he teases gently, sitting down on the bed next to Cas. “I know you said you didn’t want to go to any more events, but this one is really important to me. I want you to be there and I don’t want you to be unhappy. I don’t mind what you wear as long as it’s formal and you’re not blinding the other guests, okay?”

Cas blinks. For a few seconds, he regards Dean, his head tilted to the side, and then he smiles. It’s big and wide and melts Dean’s heart immediately. “You mean that?” Cas asks, his smile growing impossibly brighter when Dean nods. 

No matter how tonight turns out, he knows he’s made the right call here.

~ 

They almost hadn’t made it here tonight, and for no reason other than Dean’s libido and how fucking  _good_ Cas looks in formalwear.

Dean hadn’t been sure what to expect when he’d given Cas free reign over his wardrobe, but god, he hadn’t been expecting this. As he steps out of the Impala, Castiel is immediately captivating in his form-fitting slacks and white shirt with the sleeves rolled up partway, but what makes his outfit is his black coat.

It buttons together in the front—elegant and silver to match the necklace that hangs from Cas’s throat—but leaves his arms free to move. Behind him, the hem of his coat is cut low and dramatic, almost cape-like where it ends at his mid-calf. It’s black all over with silver accents to match the jewelry on Cas’s wrists and fingers and the silver glitter in his hair and it’s a testament to how little Dean has been able to take his eyes off his familiar that he doesn’t even care that that fucking glitter is going to end up in their bed tonight.

Cas straightens up and takes a moment to check over his outfit and meticulously ensure that everything is in its right place. There’s no doubt that anyone watching would immediately pin him as a crow familiar, and he wears his identity like a badge of pride. When he turns to look over at Dean, his eyes are so bright and _happy_ that Dean regrets ever insisting that he wear a regular suit to these events.

“How do I look?” he asks.

Unable to find any words that could possibly describe just how much he loves Cas in this moment, Dean simply pulls him close, runs his fingers through Cas’s silver-glittered hair, and kisses him.

 

~~~

 

In the light of the moon, Cas is a different creature entirely.

He is dark-washed feathers tipped with silver as he wheels overhead, wings stretched out to blot out the stars and, sometimes, the moon. His shadow passes over the grass around Dean, over his outstretched hands, over his face when he tips it up towards the sky. The full moon cannot be wasted, one of the few times that Dean is able to complete this particular spell, but the call of his familiar is, at times, too strong.

While Dean works, Cas flies, carefree and happy as he dances in the cold night air. Dean can practically _feel_ it radiating off him in the loops and spirals he makes and the dramatic flicks of his feathers. “Show-off,” he mutters under his breath as he watches, cauldron in front of him temporarily forgotten where he kneels in the damp grass and looks up to where the feathered shadow dances across the sky.

Castiel just _caw_ s, cocky and relaxed. _You’d better get back to work, that spell isn’t going to cast itself_ , he teases, stretching out his wings and falling lazily into a dive.

Dean flips his familiar off. “You’re not exactly helping,” he points out, but there’s a curve to his lips as he says it. “I thought having a familiar was supposed to make things easy, not be a distraction.”

Cas rolls in midair with a twitch of his wings as he nears the ground—before he makes contact, though, mere feet away from Dean, he shifts, and touches down gracefully on the grass. The last few yards are closed by six feet of gorgeous,  _human_ familiar. “I’m distracting, am I?” he asks with a grin, coming to a stop in front of Dean’s cauldron and tilting his head.

He’s _really_ naked. Dean definitely can’t be expected to concentrate like this.

“Uh, kinda,” he points out, leaning his hands on his thighs and looking up at Cas. The moonlight gleams off his ear piercings and the necklace that he never takes off. “You do remember that I can only do this spell once every month, right?”

“I know.” Cas looks up at the moon, eyes closed for a moment, as though he’s savouring the silvered wash across his skin. “I just like being out here. Your magic is so strong on these nights that I can feel it all the way through my own.” He shivers. “I just makes me want to… _fly_.”

Dean’s heart thuds unevenly in his chest at the sight of Cas, resonating with the power of their magic and so _content_ beneath the full moon. Unable to help himself, he stands, ignoring the wet patches on the knees of his jeans in favour of crossing the short space between them and pulling Cas in for a kiss.

Castiel lets out a soft, surprised sound, but melts into it easily, one arm curling around Dean’s waist and the other hand sliding blissfully into his hair. Dean’s magic simmers under his skin, and between that and the sinful way Cas is kissing him right now, his toes curl against the wet grass. When they separate, he’s breathing hard. “See?” he points out, leaning into the touch of Cas’s hand in his hair, a breathless grin curling his lips. “Distracting.”

Cas smiles and kisses him again—chastely, this time, though it still leaves Dean wanting more. “I’ll get out of your hair, then,” he says, and the only warning Dean gets is the cheeky spark in his eye before he shifts, and Dean is left holding nothing more than empty air.

“You son of a bitch,” he mutters to himself, though he can’t help but grin at the _caw_ Cas gives as he takes to the sky once more.

 _You love me_ , his impertinent familiar says across their bond.

Dean smiles, watching him play amongst the stars and moonlight.

 _I do_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the originals [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/182497075299/palinoia), [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/183113164999/nazlanmak) and here.


	42. Retirement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Castiel finally retire.

When the day comes for Sam and Dean to retire, Castiel isn’t sad about it at all.

They had started out as young men, fit and stubborn, with something to prove to a world that felt as though it was against them even from the start. Now, though, they’re older, and while they aren’t necessarily _wiser_ (not even last week, Dean had insisted on chasing after a ghoul and ended up confined to the couch with a sore back for the next two days), they _have_ changed. They’re more rational, more careful, and arguably less bull-headed.

When Castiel had gently suggested that perhaps it was time to leave the hunting to the next generation, it took Dean a little while to accept it, but eventually, he did.

(With the stipulation that they’re not hanging up their hats _just_ yet, and should the world need them, they’ll be more than ready to come back out of retirement. Castiel had just hummed and nodded in the non-verbal equivalent of a “yes, dear.”)

At first, he can tell that Dean feels a little odd about it. Sam decides to stay in the bunker for a while, at least so that he can get the next generation of hunters set up in there, but Dean and Castiel move out to a little house not even thirty minutes’ drive away. It’s the first time that Dean has lived like this since Lisa, and Castiel tries not to feel jealous about _that_ memory.

It turns out, though, that staving off jealousy isn’t too difficult when he’s falling asleep next to Dean in their new bed in their new house, or when they’re slowly unpacking their belongings both new and old, or when they sit out on the back porch for the first time and watch the sunset with a beer and a home-cooked meal in front of them.

The days turn into weeks, and the weeks into months, and their little house becomes the norm. Dean sets up a workshop in the garage, making tech for Sam to distribute to the younger hunters, or slowly restoring the few classic cars he’s working on. Castiel takes over the backyard, planting a garden and a vegetable patch and setting up a little beehive in the back corner. They often spend their afternoons out there together; Dean sitting on the back porch with a book and Castiel tending to the pumpkins that, if Dean gets his way, will soon find themselves as part of a pie.

It’s quiet and domestic and not at all like the life they’ve led before—Dean for fifty years and Castiel for countless millennia—but finally, they have something that’s _theirs_. They don’t have to worry about saving the world, and even though they’re always ready and their house is painstakingly protected, their life is quiet. Peaceful. Uneventful. For the first time, Castiel has a chance to just _be_ with Dean, without distraction.

And for the first time in a long time, they are truly _happy_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	43. Stable boy Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean, a stable boy, falls in love with a prince.

Dean has been around horses all his life. Even before he could walk, his dad would sit him in front of him when he went riding, and when Dean turned two, he learned how to ride on a fat little pony named Dodger who shook him off as often as he could. When he turned eight, he started helping his dad around the stables.

His first memory of meeting the royal family is from when he was nine years old.

They had spent the entire morning grooming each one of the horses and cleaning the stable, and his father had dressed him in his finest clothes (a half-decent tunic and a pair of breeches without stains on them). Dean had stood with the rest of the stable staff while a red and gold-draped procession had made its way down from the palace.

The royal family had barely even looked at Dean and his father and the other staff, but Dean hadn’t been paying much attention to what the adults were doing, anyway. This was more finery than he had ever seen in his life, and he was mesmerized by the richness and the shine of it; the way the sunlight glinted off golden crowns and fabric whiter than the clouds above.

But in amongst all the beauty and the grandeur was something that didn’t quite fit in.

A young boy, about Dean’s own age, dressed head to toe in golds and reds and whites, looking for all the world as though he’d rather be anywhere else.

When he caught Dean looking, he smiled and raised his hand in a tentative wave, and thus was the beginning of the end for Dean Winchester.

Ever since that day, the two have become fast friends. Castiel visits the stables whenever he can, and sometimes Dean sneaks up to the castle to meet him in the kitchens, but never ventures further than that. Friend of the crown prince or no, he knows the places that are above his status. No matter how much Castiel asks him, Dean refuses.

But they have plenty of fun outside the castle walls. Dean teaches Castiel to ride, Castiel teaches Dean to read and, slowly, to write. They go hunting, and swimming, and often simply lie together beneath the sun, Castiel reading to Dean and Dean barely able to focus on the words for the beautiful sound of his voice.

Castiel is Dean’s first kiss.

The years wear on, and the two of them continue to be inseparable. Wherever one goes, the other is often not far behind, and they spend more than a few nights together in the bed in Dean’s quarters. Those years are the best years of Dean’s life.

Dean turns seventeen—in a year, he will take over his father’s role as manager of the royal stables, and he is eager for it. Castiel’s eighteenth birthday nears, and as it does, Dean finds himself alone more and more each day, as his friend (lover?) is heaped with more and more responsibilities. He tries not to worry about it—Cas will come back to him. Cas always comes back.

And then, one day, on a day that they’re down by the lake and Castiel has been uncharacteristically quiet, the final blow falls.

“I’m getting married after my birthday.”

And Dean’s heart breaks.

After the confession, they spend every possible waking moment together, but Dean can still feel Cas slipping away. Now that he’s older, he’s taking up more responsibility at the palace, and John is growing too old to fulfil all his duties as master of the stables, so Dean takes on part of his role. They still _want_ to be together, and Dean can feel it whenever he’s with Cas, in every touch, every kiss, every word. Sometimes he catches Cas looking at him, when he thinks Dean doesn’t see, and his expression is so sad that it rips Dean’s heart apart.

But as much as they wished they had more time… they simply don’t.

Cas’s eighteenth birthday comes, and the celebrations up at the palace seem extravagant and fantastic, but Dean, of course, isn’t invited. Even though he’s the prince’s best friend, his confidant, his lover, there is no place for him among all that royalty. Instead, he sits on the paddock fence and watches as fireworks explode overhead, silent tears sliding down his cheeks.

Just after midnight, Cas slips down to the stables and into Dean’s bed. They make love in the moonlight that filters through the shuttered windows of Dean’s loft, and afterwards Dean tries to hold back his tears. “I love you,” he whispers, against Cas’s shirt, into the quiet of the night, and those three words feel so achingly fragile. It’s the first time he’s said them, but it’s also his last chance, and he _needs_ to free the feeling in his chest; one of hummingbird wings and the wretched weight of inevitability.

Castiel does not say it back, but he presses his face into Dean’s shoulder and sobs, and Dean knows that he cannot. His tears, his grief, are answer enough.

When the dawn breaks, and Castiel slips out of Dean’s bed just as quietly as he had arrived, Dean wishes with all his heart that he had the power to make Cas stay. But that had never been an option, not even from the beginning, and Dean knows this. Had known it all along, even now, as he lies in an empty bed with a broken heart.

Because no matter how much Dean wishes they were anything else, Castiel is a prince, and Dean will never be anything more than a stable boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	44. College party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is pursued by an alpha at an end-of-college party, and his boyfriend lays a not-so-subtle claim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [NadiaHart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NadiaHart/pseuds/NadiaHart)'s birthday! <3 <3

Dean’s toes dig into the sand as he dances, the flames of the bonfire lighting up the beach and flickering out once as they stretch up towards the star-strewn sky. The air smells like smoke and the sea breeze and the scents of almost a hundred people, dancing along to the music that emanates from the speakers placed further up the beach. This is the best way to celebrate the end of another semester and another year at college.

Dean isn’t usually the dancing type unless he’s got a few drinks in him, but right now he’s feeling pleasantly buzzed, and he lets himself move along to the music in the middle of the dancing crowd. To let go like this, to not have to worry about anything and just live in the moment, just  _feel_ … it’s so relaxing.

Well, it would be if not for jerk alphas who can’t take a hint.

This one in particular has had his sights set on Dean from early in the evening, and hasn’t been picking up what Dean’s putting down: namely, that he’s  _not interested_. Instead, he keeps watching Dean, trying to buy him drinks while they were all at the bar further up the beach, or attempting to initiate stilted conversation over the loud music that makes it nearly impossible. Every time, Dean has politely turned him down, but that just doesn’t seem to be getting through this alpha’s thick skull. For fuck’s sake, he’s not even Dean’s  _type_.

Right now, he’s dancing closer again, and Dean can feel his gaze on the back of his neck. He’s very close to telling the alpha that if he tries to come on to Dean one more time, he’ll spartan kick him into the fucking ocean, but any kind of confrontation is going to make a scene and that’s just really not what Dean is after tonight.

He gives the guy one more chance to keep his dignity intact, and when he feels a presence directly behind him, he carefully slips away into the crowd right before the alpha can try to start dancing with him. A girl—beta, by her scent—shares a sympathetic look with him, and they roll their eyes together.  _Some people_.

Before the alpha figures out where he’s gotten to, and Dean is forced to put a stop to this bullshit that’s honestly dampening his good mood, his phone buzzes in his pocket. Just like that, his mood lifts again, and he grins as he pulls out his phone to check who’s texted him.

_Just got here after work. Waiting by the bonfire, I’ve got a beer for you :)_

“Fuck yeah,” says Dean to no one in particular, his words drowned about by the sound of the music and the crowd drunkenly singing along. He slides his phone back into his pocket and starts to pick his way back through the crowd, towards where the flames of the bonfire lick up towards the night sky.

There are benches and beach chairs set up around the fire, and it only takes Dean a few seconds to pick out who he’s looking for. Cas is lounging on one of the beach chairs, barefooted and in a short-sleeved button-down that’s open to expose his throat. The firelight plays over his skin and illuminates his blue eyes, and when he catches sight of Dean, his face lights up.

Dean’s heart thuds giddily in his chest, and he picks his tipsy way through the crowd and over to where his boyfriend is sitting. “Hey, babe,” he says, sprawling onto Cas’s lap without any kind of grace or composure and winding his arms around Cas’s neck. “How was work?”

Castiel smiles and wraps an arm around Dean’s waist, pulling him in closer and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Tiring,” he murmurs against Dean’s skin, “but I’m glad I could make it, even for a little bit. It feels so nice to be done with classes.”

Dean hums his agreement and tilts his head, nosing up underneath Cas’s jaw. Beneath the scents of smoke and alcohol, he still smells fresh, like thunderstorms and the earth after rain. He breathes in his boyfriend’s scent and feels his whole body relax. “I’m glad you’re here too,” he mumbles.

“You haven’t been having fun without me?” Cas teases—he knows full well that Dean arrived with a bunch of their friends, and while he’s not quite sure where any of them are right now, he’s perfectly capable of having a good time by himself.

Still, he says “No” just to see Cas smile, and can’t keep himself from kissing along his alpha’s jaw. Maybe he’s more than a little tipsy. “Woulda been better without that stupid alpha, though,” he admits, more seriously.

Cas’s grip immediately tightens possessively on Dean, and whether he’s aware of it or not, his reaction still makes Dean chuckle. “Someone’s been giving you trouble?” he asks, and there’s a hint of a growl in his voice that Dean should  _not_ find so sexy.

“It’s not really a big deal,” he says with a shrug. “Just some jerk who doesn’t understand the word ‘no.’”

Castiel lifts his head, and Dean can see him scanning the crowd, looking for something in particular. He must see it, because his lips curl into a hard-edged smirk. “I think I see the one you’re talking about. Tall, blond, looks like he uses the gym in place of having a personality?”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, that’d be the one. You think he’ll back off now?”

His question is answered when Cas curls his fingers around Dean’s jaw and pulls him in for a kiss so searingly hot that it makes his toes curl. He’s far too drunk to be able to keep up with whatever Cas is doing with his tongue, so he curls his fingers into the front of Cas’s shirt and goes along for the ride. When his alpha pulls back, looking very smug and pleased at the arousal that has wound into Dean’s scent, it takes Dean a few seconds to catch his breath.

“I don’t think he’ll be causing you any more problems,” Cas says, sliding his hand over Dean’s thigh in a clear claim. Sure enough, when he turns to look, there’s no sign of the alpha in the crowd.

“Thank fuck,” Dean sighs. “You’re a possessive son of a bitch, you know that?” His voice is teasing, and he grins at his boyfriend, who simply shrugs.

“Can you blame me? The only thing better than me warning them away is watching you put them in their place. I’m surprised that one hadn’t ended up in the ocean yet.”

“He would’ve if you hadn’t shown up,” Dean mutters, “but I was lured over here by the promise of beer and my hot boyfriend.” 

“And are you complaining about that?” Castiel lets go of Dean with one hand and reaches down to the side of the beach chair, coming back up with a cold, condensation-damp beer that he hands over to Dean with a grin.

Dean twists the beer open and presses a kiss to Cas’s lips. “Not at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	45. Hunter Destiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean goes on his first solo hunt, and bites off more than he can chew.

Dean is nineteen when his dad lets him go on his first solo hunt.

It’s a nest of vampires just north of Toledo, and it takes him most of the day to get there, but he doesn’t mind because John let him take the Impala, and it’s just him and his Baby and the open road. The motel he pulls over at, close to where the nest is located, is dingy and deserted, but Dean is riding high on the euphoria of being properly alone for the first time in years and he doesn’t care. This hunt is a big deal, and he doesn’t want to screw it up, but he’s also going to bask in the feeling of being _trusted_ and _capable_ for just a little bit.

The guy at the front desk is playing games on his phone, and doesn’t look up even when Dean clears his throat. Instead, he says, “Ten dollars a night,” and waves his hand at the board of keys above his head, only one of which is missing.

Not the best signs, but Dean is more than used to a life like this by now. He pays with a credit card under the name of Robert Plondt, his heart in his throat—he’s never used a fake card while he’s alone, and _this_ feels like joining the big leagues.

The man doesn’t bat an eye, just hands Dean the room key and goes back to playing his game.

Dean’s room is on the ground level, and he moves the Impala into the run-down parking lot, next to an ugly-ass Continental that he curls his lip at. The room itself is little better than everything else Dean has seen of the motel so far, but if his plan works out, then he’ll be out of here by tomorrow afternoon anyway.

He drops his duffel by the foot of his dodgy-looking bed and pulls out his notebooks—full of the information he’s picked up from his dad over the years, and the details of the case that he’d found. He knows where the nest is, and from the number of killings recorded, it can’t be large. He’ll head out there in the morning, slice up some fanged sons of bitches, and then be on his way back home. John will be so proud of him.

Dinner is a cardboard-tasting pizza delivered to his motel room and eaten on his bed, the muted sound of the television playing in the background while he reads over his notes again and again. Tomorrow has to go perfectly, and it’s late by the time he finally packs up all his notes and falls asleep on top of the questionable covers, gun tucked safely beneath the scratchy pillow.

When the dawn rises the next morning, so does Dean.

Breakfast is had at the tiny diner down the street, even though Dean is too nervous to stomach much more than a coffee and an egg and bacon sandwich, and then he’s on the road again. The nest isn’t far out, and as he watches the sun rise over the horizon, he knows that the vamps will just be going to sleep now. They’ll never know what hit them.

He parks the car just down the road from the run-down farmhouse where the monsters are holed up, and his heart beats double-time in his chest as he checks his weapons and slides his phone into his pocket just in case anything goes sideways. With one final, steeling breath, he twirls his machete and sets off towards the farmhouse.

~

He’s taken on so much more than he can handle.

The vampires had indeed been asleep by the time he’d crept in the back door, but hadn’t stayed that way for long once Dean had started taking them out. He can keep up with a handful, but for every one he decapitates, two more seem to take its place, and he can feel himself getting pinned back into a corner the longer the fight continues.

Teeth close dangerously close to his arm, and he swings his machete blindly—he’s lucky that it connects with flesh and bone, but his following swing isn’t so great. It lodges in the next vampire’s shoulder, and while he howls in pain, the other vamp beside him takes the opportunity to tackle Dean. Dean’s head smacks against the floor, and he finds himself pinned to the ground, dizzy and disoriented. The vampire above him grins, canines razor-sharp and glinting in the dim light of the farmhouse.

All Dean can think about, as he stares down his own death, is the disappointment his dad is going to feel in him, and how much he’s going to miss Sammy.

And then there’s a flash of metal, and the vampire’s head separates neatly from his neck, the decapitated body slumping to the ground to reveal a young man standing over Dean.

He’s tall, wearing ripped jeans, combat boots, and an old leather jacket. His hair is a mess, he’s spattered with blood, and the ground around him is littered with all the vampires that Dean had failed to kill.

For a second, all Dean can do is stare up at the hunter who saved him—a guardian angel, surely, for how close Dean had been to meeting his maker.

And then the man growls out, “Are you fucking stupid?” and the spell is broken. Dean shakes his head to clear it and props himself up on his elbows.

“I didn’t know how many vamps there really were here,” he mutters under his breath, reaching over to retrieve his machete from the vampire’s shoulder.

The hunter reaches out a hand to help Dean up, which he accepts, because It’s starting to properly sink in that he’d be dead right now if not for this guy, and he doesn’t know that he fully trusts his legs to hold him up in this moment. “I saw your Impala parked down the road,” the guy says, letting go of Dean’s hand. “You only got in last night, and you didn’t scope the place out? Rookie mistake. You’re lucky I was on my way here anyway.”

Dean’s pride may be severely bruised, but he still says, “Thanks for that,” because he’s right. It _was_ a rookie mistake, and it almost got him killed.

The hunter must see that he’s still a little shaken, because he offers him a tight smile as they pick their way over the corpses and step back out into the sunshine. Outside of the dingy farmhouse, his eyes shine a bright blue against tanned skin. “It’s okay,” he says. “You’ll learn. What’s your name?”

The ugly Continental is parked out the front of the farmhouse, and Dean has never been so happy to see such a shitty car in his life. “Dean Winchester,” he says, and the hunter must have heard of his family, because he raises his eyebrows. “You?”

The hunter spins his machete in his hand and then hooks it back onto his belt. It gleams in the sunlight, sharp and dangerous.

“Castiel Novak,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile. “Nice to meet you, Winchester.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	46. Streetracing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean races for his father's crown.

The darkest parts of the city of Da-jiirde-mæ, out past the climate dome and where not even the Feds will extend the arm of the intergalactic law, are where the racers reign.

The streets are narrow, winding, bordered on each side by space junk that has been turned into houses, storefronts, makeshift cargo pods. People— _creatures_ , some of them—from every imaginable planet and galaxy have found their home here, in a vast array of dialects and appearances and cultures. It is not a peaceful area by far, but it is governed by unspoken laws and centuries-old agreements…

And by the racers.

This has been Dean’s life for as long as he can remember. John Winchester had been the King, many years ago, and when he’d died, the mantle of King had been open once again, able to be claimed by whoever was the most daring, the most talented, the most recklessly ambitious. He’d been too young to race for the title that year, but he spent it scouring the scrapheaps and making the modifications to John’s old Impxla II that his father had never wanted while he was alive.

The next year, though, he was ready.

It shaped up to be a cut-throat race, of course—everyone around knew that Dean Winchester had returned to reclaim his father’s crown, and it seemed like half the city had turned out to stop him doing just that. The starting line had been packed with more speeders than Dean had ever seen in his life, and all eyes were on him, it felt like. Waiting for him to slip up. Waiting for him to fail.

He’d flipped down his visor determinedly, flexed his fingers around the joystick, and waited for the countdown.

The first half of the race hadn’t been so bad. Dean had been targeted, of course, but the new diversion systems he’d installed had kept him out of the way of most of the laser shots sent his way. (The buildings that had taken the hits instead of him hadn’t been too lucky, but that is always the case with the races; it is part and parcel of living in such a wild place.)

His good luck had been too good to be true, though.

Dean had been driving the race route with his father since he was barely old enough to see over the dash, but not even he could have spotted the EMP left right in the middle of the street and covered with a cham-shield. Whoever had put it there had known that he’d be leading the race, that he’d be the first one to pass over it, so when Dean’s engine dies with a horrifying crackle of static and his speeder drops out of the air to skid helpless along the street, he immediately kicks himself for not seeing this coming.

His battery is shorted out, irreparable apart from a replacement or access to a new power source to bring it back to life, and all he can do is watch while the other racers fly past. It’s too late in the race now to be able to swap out, and Dean knows that he’s done for. He’s going to have to wait until next year to be able to reclaim his dad’s title, and he bites back bitter tears of frustration.

Someone bangs on the window of his speeder.

It makes him jump—there shouldn’t be anyone on the ground right now, not while the race is going on, but when he turns to look, there’s a dark-suited figure outside. Dean rolls down his window.

“Take my battery,” the man says without preamble, hoisting up the glowing blue cylinder so that Dean can see. It looks like Enochii technology, and Dean’s eyes widen—he’s never seen anything like it, only heard stories, whispers. He’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Connect it up!” he orders, his adrenaline running too high to be polite about it as he jumps out and opens up the hood of his speeder to reveal the engines and circuitry beneath. Together, they work to disconnect the old battery and wire in the new one, the cylinder glowing serenely amongst all the rest of the Impxla’s hardware. When Dean slams the hood back down, it’s with the blossoming hope in his chest that he might actually still win this thing.

“I could fucking kiss you,” he tells the man, jabbing a finger in his direction as he jumps back into the seat of his speeder. “Come find me at the finish line, regardless of whether I win, okay?”

He barely has time to see the man nod, the ghost of a smile barely visible through his dark-tinted helmet, before he’s off once again.

With an Enochii battery hooked up to his engine, it feels like Dean is flying. He’s moving three times as fast as he was before, the streets of the city speeding past, and already he can see the end of the pack that had left him behind. It’ll be close, that’s for sure, but his gut tells him he’s still in with a chance. He joins the back of the pack just as they make the last sharp turn, and then it’s a mad dash down the final straight. Those behind him fire at him, those beside him try to jostle him out of the sky, but Dean evades them all effortlessly, and soon enough he’s nipping at the leader’s heels.

The look of shock on the Morphae’s spotted face is something that Dean will remember for a long time as he gives them a middle-fingered salute and rockets past them, clearing the finish line with barely a ship-length between their speeders.

 _He won_.

The rest of it, the after, is a blur. He remembers the unofficial coronation, Sammy at the front of the crowd and cheering louder for him than anyone else. He remembers a few of his dad’s friends escorting away the Morphae who had set the EMP. He remembers being asked about his speeder, and how he’s made it back to the pack so quickly, let alone at all.

He doesn’t tell them too much about the dark-suited man who’d helped him out; it feels too private, especially when he doesn’t even have all the answers about just _why_ he’d helped Dean down there on that deserted street.

Not long after, he manages to slip away, into a quiet alleyway where he can _breathe_. He can’t quite keep the smile off his face, because holy fuck, he actually _won_ , but he’s still kind of disappointed that the man hadn’t shown up.

“Congratulations.”

The voice comes from behind him, and Dean whips around, startled.

Standing there is the same man from before, dressed in a black racing suit, but this time there are two equally black wings curling out from behind him, and there is no longer a helmet hiding the face that Dean now instantly recognizes.

“Cas?” he asks, his eyes wide, jaw dropping. He’d never known that the young man who lived above his garage and had occasionally kept him company while he worked on his speeder had been a fucking _Enochii_.

Cas smiles, and now that he’s not keeping them hidden, the soft blue markings that denote one of his kind appear on his cheekbones and the backs of his hands. “Surprise,” he says, and Dean can’t suppress the giddy laugh that bubbles up in his chest.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You—you saved my ass back there, dude. You could have won it all, though, with that kind of tech. Why didn’t you?”

The question earns him a shrug, in that same casual way that has been so endearing to Dean every time they’ve hung out. “You wanted it so badly,” he says, “and I knew that you’d win as long as nobody fucked you over. I was only there just in case something went wrong.”

Dean grins, euphoric, and even though he’s fantasized about kissing Cas once or twice in the quiet privacy of his garage, he’s never wanted to do it quite as much as he does now. “I don’t know how to thank you, Cas, really.”

The corner of Cas’s mouth quirks upwards and he tilts his head, wings ruffling at his back. “Well. I believe you said, back there, that you could kiss me. I could go for a reward like that.” The curve of his lips is both confident and hesitant, as if he’s not sure if Dean really meant what he’d said in the heat of the moment, and, well. Dean won’t stand for that.

He closes the space between them in a handful of strides, curls his fingers into the front of Cas’s racing suit, and pulls him in for a kiss. Cas makes a surprised sound against his lips, and then melts into it, his arms wrapping around Dean’s waist and wings curling lightly over Dean’s shoulders.

There’s no telling how long they stay there for, trading kisses in the slowly-darkening alleyway, but when they finally separate, Dean is grinning breathlessly, and Cas is practically _glowing_.

The darkest parts of the city of Da-jiirde-mæ are where the racers reign, but never in its long history has it ever seen anything quite like the Kingship of Dean Winchester and Castiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	47. Singer Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel soundmixes for professional artist Dean Winchester.

Castiel has met his fair share of talented artists, but he’s never met one quite like Dean Winchester.

When he first walks into work on Monday morning, he knows he’s recording for a D. Winchester, and from the way the other techs whisper about him in the staff room, it’s kind of a big deal. Not that means much to Castiel—for someone who works for one of the biggest recording studios in the country, he doesn’t really keep up to date with the ‘popular music.’ He does his job, records whoever walks into his booth and makes them sound good, then goes home and puts his Spotify on shuffle. He’s got an eclectic and varied taste in music, that’s for sure.

He’s never heard of Winchester, though, apart from maybe passing mentions on television, so he doesn’t quite understand the jealous looks some of the other sound engineers are shooting him as he leaves his bag by his desk and quickly checks his emails before heading over to the studio where he’ll be working for the day. It doesn’t matter much to him, though—it’s just part of the job.

It doesn’t take him long to go through the administrative part of his day, and then he’s free to disappear off to his booth to set things up for the day ahead. Castiel always likes to make sure that the control and live rooms are both neat and properly organized for what he needs to record, and today is all vocals. He’s still tinkering with his console when there’s a knock on the door outside.

When he opens it, it’s to six feet of leather-jacket-wearing beauty, and he was _not_ expecting D. Winchester to look like this. Freckles, softly gelled hair, a crooked half-smile that’s confident and self-deprecating all at once, and green eyes the likes of which Castiel has never seen in real life.

“Hello,” he says without thinking, his brain still processing the fact that Winchester is one of the most handsome men he’s ever seen.

“Hey,” is the response he gets, and those lips curl up into a proper smile now. “You’re Novak, right? Uh… Cas-tee-el? You’re the one I’m recording with today, I’ve been told.”

“Just call me Cas.” The correction is more a habit than anything—his full name had sounded wonderful in Winchester’s deep drawl. “That’s me, yes.”

Winchester holds out his hand to shake. “I’m Dean,” he says. “Looking forward to working with you today, buddy.”

Castiel takes his hand and shakes it, then invites him into the studio, trying his best not to make a fool of himself. _He’s probably got no talent_ , he reminds himself. _Just a pretty face with a good manager and a voice half-passable with some autotune_. That helps him feel a little less starstruck by the gorgeous man who gets himself settled on the stool in the live booth and smiles at Cas through the glass while he gets his headphones situated.

“What are we starting with?” he asks through the comms as he gets himself fully set up, leaning forward over his desk to look at the list of songs that had been emailed to him.

Dean hums thoughtfully, then says, “I think we’ll start with Way Down We Go,” and if hearing Dean’s voice normally had made Castiel’s heart beat double-time, then hearing him through his headphones, as though he’s _inside_ Cas’s head, is so much more intense.

Maybe he’s made the wrong assessment about Dean’s vocal capability.

Before he gets much more of a chance to second-guess himself, he pulls up the backing track for that song—all the instrumentals had been recorded a few days ago, and now it’s just Castiel and Dean putting together the last few pieces. “Let me know when you’re ready,” he says, and Dean rolls his neck, gets comfortable, then shoots Castiel a grin and two thumbs up from his position by the microphone.

The first notes play through Castiel’s headphones, and he’d known that the vocals started pretty early into the song, but when Dean opens his mouth and starts singing, Castiel completely forgets that he’s supposed to be doing his job right now.

Dean’s voice is deep and rich and beautiful, flowing like molasses along with the tempo of the song. The moments of distortion are exceptionally timed, his falsetto a perfect crest before he falls back into the melody, and by the time he’s belting out the chorus, head tipped back and eyes closed like he’s in the middle of a religious experience, Castiel is lost.

It’s all he can do just to listen, his attention absolutely captivated by this beautiful, _impossibly talented_ man. In the moments when he’s no singing, he’s moving along to the riffs of the guitar or miming the notes themselves in the air, letting the music take over him and crooning against the microphone when he needs to.

_Baby, oo-ooh… way down we go._

All of Castiel’s assumptions about this man had been _so wrong_.

By the time the song finishes, Castiel has been sitting with his mouth open for three and a half minutes with no work to show for it. The last notes of the song fade, and then Dean opens his eyes, made vulnerable and raw by the music. His smile is fragile, as though that rendition could have been anything less than perfect, as though Castiel could possibly find any room for improvement. Cas has recorded a lot of artists, but none of them had managed to floor him quite as thoroughly as what he’d just witnessed.

“Was that okay?” Dean asks, reaching up to adjust one of his headphones and watching Cas through the glass. Now that he knows what Dean is capable of, just how much talent he possesses, he finds him even more beautiful. Good god, his colleagues had been right to be jealous.

Castiel clears his throat, composes himself for a second, then presses his comms button and says, “Holy shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	48. Mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean convinces Castiel to stay in bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday gift for [spnhell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnhell) <3

There is little in the world that is better than waking up next to Dean, Castiel has decided.

In those moments, curled up together in their bed in the small apartment that they call home—the space they have carved out together, just for the two of them—he could not be happier. The sheets are warm where they wrap around his body; Dean, in every possible place they’re pressed together, is even warmer. It’s cozy and it’s home and if Castiel never had to leave he’d be a happy man.

His alarm, and the eight a.m. class that Professor Adler scheduled just to spite his students, have other ideas.

The musical tones cut through his sleep-hazed mind—sharp enough to rouse him, but not grating enough to irritate—and he grumbles under his breath. It’s been raining all night, he thinks, had been raining when they went to sleep tangled together and blissfully exhausted, and is still raining now in a light patter against their bedroom window. His motivation to get out of bed is low.

Castiel disentangles himself from Dean’s octopus grip enough to reach for his phone and snooze the alarm. Does he bite the bullet and get up now, or give himself another five minutes?

Dean’s arm tightens around his waist and pulls him gently back into the pool of warmth that they’ve created, away from the cool bite of the early morning air. “Mornin’, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing drowsily over Castiel’s shoulders, and Castiel melts.

“Good morning,” he says, his lips curling up until a smile as he leans back into Dean’s embrace. Dean is solid and warm behind him, hair tickling the back of his neck and fingers skimming lightly over his stomach.

“You plannin’ on leaving me?” Dean says against his skin, pressing his forehead against the curve of Castiel’s spine. His voice is sleep-roughened, but Castiel can still hear his smile, feel it in the shape of Dean’s lips on his skin.

If he wants to keep his willpower intact, he shouldn’t roll over, but that’s exactly what he does now, shifting in Dean’s embrace until they’re face to face. He’d been a lost cause from the moment Dean had pulled him closer and called him _baby_. “I should,” he says, unconvincingly, because now he can see Dean’s face in the faint light that filters through rain-dappled windows, those green eyes soft and amused. “I have to get to class, you—you’re a _bad influence_.”

The last few words come out somewhat more hoarse that Castiel had been expecting, because Dean chooses that point to tilt his head and brush his lips against the curve of Cas’s jaw, kissing up towards the soft spot on his neck that makes him forget about anything other than Dean’s kisses, Dean’s touch, _Dean_. “Fuck,” he breathes, and Dean chuckles, rich and warm.

“Your lecture date with Adler is more appealing than staying in bed with your boyfriend on a rainy day?” He _tsks_ quietly, scraping his teeth over the bolt of Castiel’s jaw while his fingers slide teasingly over his stomach. “Guess I didn’t do a very good job last night, then.”

The words are said with the smug air of someone who _does indeed_ know that they had done a good job last night, if the comfortable ache in Castiel’s muscles is anything to go by, but there’s no way he can muster enough focus to deliver a witty comeback. Instead, all he can do is groan “you’re insufferable” and curl his fingers around the curve of Dean’s jaw, pulling him up into a proper kiss.

It’s lazy and relaxed, all slow-moving bodies and the drag of hands over skin, and Castiel is definitely going to have to email Adler with a bullshit excuse for his absence—but that becomes the last thing on his mind when Dean’s hands and mouth start to roam, and all of Castiel’s thoughts dissolve into pleasure and bliss and _Dean_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	49. Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean grieves on the anniversary of his mother's death.

Castiel comes home in the early hours of the morning to find Dean still awake.

In his own sleep-deprived and assignment-fueled haze, he had expected their dorm room to be dark and quiet, which is why he’s so careful in letting himself in, so that he doesn’t wake Dean. Instead, though, the room is washed with the blue-white light of Dean’s laptop.

When Castiel blinks tiredly at him, confused, it takes him a second to realize that Dean’s cheeks are wet.

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles quickly, wiping at his eyes with one hand while he quickly shuts his laptop with the other, plunging the room into near-darkness. “I didn’t, um… I lost track of time. How was the library?” His voice cracks, and Castiel’s heart aches, because if he’d realized that Dean was upset tonight, he would have been here with him, instead of cramming at the library.

“It was alright,” he says, leaving his bag on the floor and making his way over to where Dean is sitting on their bed. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

As Castiel’s eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, he sees Dean look up at the ceiling for a second. His intake of breath wobbles. “It’s the second,” he says finally, his voice quiet and small.

It takes a second to realize what Dean means—and then he puts the pieces together, and it feels like he’s taken a punch to the gut. _Of course_. “Oh, Dean,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry, love.”

Dean sobs, then, great wracking sobs that shake his body as Castiel climbs up onto the bed beside him and just holds him, stroking his back and letting him cry against his shoulder. They’ve been roommates for long enough—boyfriends for less, but still not an insignificant while—that Castiel should have known this was coming, and he whispers his apologies into Dean’s hair. Whether or not he’s heard, he’s not sure, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters in this moment is that he’s here for Dean.

It’s the early hours of the morning on the second of November, and Castiel holds Dean until he has no more tears left, until he is wrung dry from his grief, until the first faint light filters through the window and, finally, they sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	50. Painter Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean stresses about his upcoming exhibition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday gift for [miggs](http://migglangelus.tumblr.com) <3

Warm light streams through the window of Dean’s studio and drapes itself over his canvas, illuminating his paints in brilliant hues and shades of grey. Stroke by stroke, his work is coming together, and it’s easy to lose himself in it by way of sheer practice and love for his art. Painting, for him, is so much more than just work—it’s love, it’s dedication, it’s hours and hours spent striving for perfection.

Dean doesn’t know how long he’s been enmeshed in the fog of working before warm hands slide over his shoulders and squeeze gently. Breath curls against his air, followed by a gentle press of lips against the soft skin just below. “Earth to Dean,” comes the murmured voice—fond and amused and so soft.

“Sorry, babe,” he says in reply, setting down his paintbrush and stretching his fingers as he leans back against Cas. Fuck, he really must have lost track of time, from the stiffness in his body. How long has he been painting for? “Were you trying to talk to me?”

Cas hums, turning his face against Dean’s neck. His lips brush lightly over Dean’s skin. “I was, yes. Didn’t realize you were so deeply engrossed in your work, though. How is it going?”

How _is_ it going?

Dean surveys his canvas properly for the first time in what feels like hours, finally taking a step back from it instead of closely examining it with a critical eye. To him, it’s easy to pick out the imperfections—the flaw in his perspective here, a slightly misplaced light source there, a handful of brushstrokes that are a little too messy for his liking. “It’s alright,” he hedges, hoping that Cas can’t see the twist of unhappiness to his lips. “I don’t know if it’s going to be ready by Monday, though.”

His workshop is full of canvases—half-finished, barely-started, or fully completed but not up to his standards. For his first exhibition, he wants everything to be as perfect as he can possibly get it, and this one was supposed to be his _pièce de résistance_ , but he wants it to be _perfect_ , and it’s just… not.

“Do you have the option to _not_ have it ready by Monday?” Cas murmurs, a hint of teasing in his voice. His lips are still next to Dean’s neck, and he shifts his arms to wrap around Dean’s shoulders now—solid and comforting.

“Not fuckin’ really,” Dean sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. _Months_ , he’s had to work on this, and of course he’s bringing it right down to the wire. Nothing like the threat of a looming deadline to kick one’s ass into gear. “I’m screwed.”

“Dean.”

Cas’s voice is serious now, and he leans forward over Dean’s shoulder so that they can look each other in the eyes, his brow creased into a frown. “You are talented,” he says, gently but insistently. “You’ve worked hard at this, and I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that you’re going to pull it off. To me, it looks beautiful, and I know I’m only an art history graduate and not an actual artist, but I’d like to think that counts for something, okay?” His lips curve up in the hint of a smile. “Besides, we both know that I have excellent taste, because I chose to date you, so there.”

Dean can’t help but huff out a laugh. “Sometimes I wonder,” he mutters wryly, and Cas flicks him lightly on the bicep.

“Don’t make me regret it,” he warns, but there’s a smile on his lips and crinkling his eyes, and Dean feels his heart swell. “Really though,” Cas continues, “I think it looks amazing. You’re just overthinking it. What you need…” Here, his smile turns into a wicked grin, and he ducks his head to press a line of kisses along Dean’s throat that curl Dean’s toes. “…Is a distraction. Something to get you out of your head.”

“Got any suggestions?” Dean asks, suddenly somewhat breathless, and Castiel hums against Dean’s skin.

“I don’t know about you,” he muses, “but it’s getting late, and I’m feeling like a shower.” Dean feels him smirk. “You’re always more than welcome to come and join me—but _don’t_ keep freaking out about your painting.”

And then he’s gone, leaving cold air and the lingering hints of his smug tease in his absence, like he _knows_ that he’s got Dean right where he wants him.

Dean turns to watch him go, then looks back at his painting. Takes in the mistakes, the weaknesses, the parts he’s unhappy with. He could stay here, agonizing over them for the rest of the night, or…

 _Fuck it_.

He sets his paints aside, wipes his hands off on his paint-covered jeans, then follows after his boyfriend with a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	51. Synchronicity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fate (destiny, a horse) brings Dean and Castiel together.

It’s finals week, and the library is the most packed Dean has ever seen it. He has a report to submit by the end of the week, and the Wi-Fi in his dorm is being fucking horrific, so braving the mass of despondent and sleep-deprived students in the library is his only option if he wants to get this in on time.

He’s been circling the rows of desks for a few minutes now, looking for somewhere to sit in the hopes that one of the seats will have been magically vacated in the time it took to check the others.

Thankfully—and there must be someone up above smiling down on Dean right now—one has. He snatches it up before anyone else can get to it first, and breathes a sigh of relief as he unpacks his bag and sets himself up. His report can still be salvaged.

As he unpacks, Dean notices a few sheets of handwritten notes sitting on the desk between him and his neighbor. From the fact that his neighbor is currently studying the intricacies of the nervous system, and the notes, from a glance, seem to be about Renaissance Europe, it’s safe to say that they must belong to whoever was here before Dean. There’s a tiny bee sketched onto the margin of the paper, and Dean smiles at it for a second before he has to open his laptop and get to work.

Two hours later, he takes a break to go to the bathroom, leaving his stuff on his desk because it’s worth the risk of it all getting stolen if it means he secures his place.

When he comes back, the notes are gone.

~

It’s raining, and Dean stares forlornly out at the empty space between his building and the parking lot where his car is. He should have brought his engineering project in as soon as he’d remembered that he’d left it in the backseat of his car, but now it’s pouring, his umbrella is also still in his car, and he’s paying for his mistake.

There are a few umbrellas by the building’s front door, opened and drying off in the warmth. He feels a little bad for taking one, but it’s the only way he’s going to make it back inside without the rain destroying the little machine he’s worked so hard on building.

“Sorry, Novak,” he mutters, reading the name on the handle of the closest umbrella he grabs. “I’ll have it back in a sec, I promise.”

Now protected from the rain, Dean dashes out to his car, and manages to get his project inside—safe, dry and all in one piece.

He also forgets to return the umbrella to its place by the front door.

~

It’s a Saturday morning, and Dean is studying (or trying to, at least) in the common room of his res hall.

Someone’s fixed the Wi-Fi, thankfully, so he doesn’t have to brave the hordes of the library any more, but he’d almost rather take the busyness and the silence over the idiots talking loudly fooling around a few tables over from him.

“—doesn’t want to come to the party next weekend, how do we convince him?”

One of the guys—a smarmy British bastard who Dean has only encountered a few times but whose personality grates on Dean like nothing else—chuckles and leans in close. “It won’t take much to get him out. Just pinch his room key or something, and—”

Dean rolls his eyes and turns his headphones up louder, drowning out their conversation and focusing on his work. When he looks up half an hour later, the friend that the group had been waiting for must have joined them, because the table is empty.

~

It’s the end of a long day, and Dean is lying on his bed watching Netflix when there’s a knock on his door.

All his friends—and more than half of the residents in his dorm—are going to a party tonight, but considering Dean has been working all damn day, there’s nothing he wanted to do _less_ than go out and get wasted. He’s quite happy lying here and watching Queer Eye, thank you very much.

That does mean, however, that if his friends are all out tonight, he has no idea who the hell is knocking on his door.

With no shortage of grumbling, he hauls his exhausted limbs up and makes his way over to the door, pulling it open.

Standing in front of him is a grumpy-looking (but _attractive_ ) student, holding a stack of notebooks and textbooks to his chest, tucked half-under his jacket. It must be raining again, because the guy’s dark hair is dripping into his eyes, and the exposed corner of one of his cartoon bee-covered notebooks is looking a little soggy. “Can I help you?” Dean asks, somewhat distracted by the bright blue eyes and the irritated crease between the guy’s brows.

“Thank god someone’s still here,” the guy mutters. He lifts a hand to push his hair off his forehead. “I lost my room key, and it’s pouring outside, and someone stole my umbrella, and all my friends are at that stupid party but I’ve been studying all day and all I want to do right now is lie down on the floor and not move for a month.”

A little dramatic, perhaps, but definitely a sentiment that Dean can agree with. The corners of his mouth curl up into a smile—even grumpy and wet, this guy is still pretty cute, and his voice in particular is making Dean a little weak at the knees.

“Did you want to come in and hang out for a bit?” Dean asks, amused, and the guy’s expression transforms into a grateful smile.

“That would be fantastic, thank you,” he says, breathing a sigh of relief when Dean steps aside and motions him into his room. “Have you been here long? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

Dean closes the door behind them and settles back onto his bed, closing his laptop on the episode he’d been watching. “I only moved into this dormitory this year,” he explains, leaning back on his hands.

The guy raises an eyebrow at Dean to check that it’s okay before he sets his stack of books down on the corner of Dean’s desk—all notebooks and textbooks with titles like ‘The House of Medici’ and ‘Renaissance and Reformation.’ “Well,” he says, lips curving up into a smile that makes Dean’s heart double-beat in his chest. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Castiel Novak, but you can just call me Cas.”

 _Novak_. Dean’s eyes go wide. _Well, fuck_. This might make things awkward—he has to hope that Cas isn’t the type to hold a grudge.

“Dean Winchester,” Dean says, and gives Cas a sheepish smile. “I think I’m the one who accidentally stole your umbrella.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	52. Archaeologist Dean/God Cas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean explores an ancient temple and awakens an ancient presence.

Somewhere deep in the Amazonian rainforest, far beneath the tree canopy and a few miles north of the raging river, Dean Winchester stands at the entrance of a long-forgotten temple.

It towers above him, all crumbling bricks and snaking vines, exactly what he’s been looking for after weeks of searching and months of planning and years upon years of studying the ancient texts that have directed him to this very spot. Several of the remaining inscriptions and tablets from other sites mention this god, and the existence of a temple dedicated to him, but while other scholars had dismissed the temple as being lost to the cruel winds of time, Dean had not given up so easily.

And here he stands.

“About fuckin’ time,” he says to himself, a grin curling his lips. He’s been after this find, and now that he’s here, he’s itching to get in and explore. There’s no telling what he’s about to unearth—so, never one to waste time, he checks his gear one last time, sends a quick thought up to the supposed god of the temple he’s about to enter, and steps inside.

Inside the temple, where the sun has not touched for many hundreds of years, the air is cool and dry. Dean reaches for the lamp that he keeps clipped to the outside of his backpack and turns it on, the low light illuminating inscriptions and decorations on the stone walls. He’s careful where he steps, mindful of the pottery shards that litter the ground in some places. He’ll need to come back and inspect those later, but for now, he wants to get the lay of the land. The temple hadn’t looked that large, from the outside, but he knows that there are areas he couldn’t see without entering the structure, and he’s curious to find out exactly what they hold.

Every step takes him further into the temple, through twisting corridors and past rooms of worship and offering. Those aren’t what Dean is looking for, though, not right now. The texts he’s read tell of the temple having a ‘heart,’ a place right in the core of the temple that served as the connection to the god. It is where, the texts say, the god’s presence could be felt most strongly, and where the most elite and the most religious came to pay tribute.

Dean follows his nose through the temple, using his compass and his many years of experience to try and locate the centre. The corridor he’s following turns a corner, and when Dean steps around it, he can see light at the end; part of the roof structure that has caved in. It’s in the right spot to be what he’s looking for, and he crosses the rest of the distance to the corridor’s end in wide, hurried strides, until he steps out into a grand, sunlit room.

The collapse looks to have come from a built-in skylight that has deteriorated over time, but it’s the kind of feature that would have allowed the god’s followers to feel closer to him—he had been, after all, the god of life, and of the sun. That much Dean has been able to parse out, though a name for the deity has still escaped his research.

Even without the crumbled skylight, though, there’s no doubt that this is the room he’s been looking for.

Paint adorns the walls, bright colours and spots of gold decorating every available space. Along the walls are chests and shelves full of precious metals, gems, incense, any offerings that would have pleased the god, and stand as evidence that this temple has not been touched since the fall of its people, hundreds of years ago. In the centre of the room are four trees that have long since grown out of hand, roots cracking the floor around their squares of dirt and branches stretching up, untamed, towards the high ceiling.

What catches Dean’s eye, though, is the altar in the centre of the room and the four trees. It’s a piece of solid stone, slightly taller than Dean himself, and as he steps closer, he can make out the intricate carvings that have been etched onto its surface.

There is a man, tall and handsomely stylized, with the sun hanging over his head like the halo of an angel. It shines down on him, and on the trees and the land that surrounds his image. _The giver of life_.

Beneath the inscription, there is a single handprint—originally etched into the rock, but whose edges have been worn smooth by a thousand years, and the touch of hundreds, if not thousands, of hands to this very spot.

Dean is witnessing history, in the evidence of worn stone and religious dedication. It’s humbling, to be standing here where so many people have prayed, or given tribute, or dedicated themselves to the god. To be such a small piece of history, and to be bearing witness to all that has come before him… It’s more than a little mind-blowing.

He steps up close to the altar, and kneels down on the smooth stone before it. He’s in this god’s temple, has read and learned so much about him, that it feels wrong not to pay him his respects before Dean begins documenting what he’s found. He may not believe in a heaven or that there’s anyone up there watching over him, but the people who built this had believed, and that’s enough for him, right now. He’s respecting their memory, and everything that they built and believed.

Which is why he reaches out and touches his hand to the handprint in the stone.

And then there’s a loud _crack_ , like the earth itself shifting, groaning, reawakening.

 _That can’t be good_.

Dean pulls his hand back from the stone and looks up at the sunlight still streaming through the hole in the roof. The sun is still shining, the temple still stands, and despite the sound, it doesn’t seem that anything has changed. Dean certainly hasn’t been zapped out of existence for daring to touch an ancient ritual item, which is always a relief.

Disappointed by the lack of consequences, Dean stands, ready to keep exploring the chamber to see if there’s anything else that could be the ‘heart’ that the texts had referred to.

When he turns away from the altar, there is a man standing in front of him.

He’s tall and tanned, wearing only what looks to be some sort of loincloth. Gold adorns his wrists and throat and ears, standing out starkly against the dark, unruly curls of his hair. Wide, blue eyes bore into Dean’s as though they can see right into his very soul, and his feet are bare, grounded against the earth and stone. 

He was certainly not there when Dean had knelt down, and it’s only a very good amount of self-control that keeps Dean from jumping a foot in the air at the sudden appearance of this strange man. “Who the fuck are you?” he demands.

The man tilts his head to the side, slow and careful, then blinks. “I have not been summoned to this mortal plane for a very long time,” he says—quietly, but in a voice that still resonates with power and practically _demands_ that Dean listen. “My followers have long since disappeared, and yet… here you are.”

It takes a moment for Dean to process this, but when it clicks into place in his mind, he sucks in a sharp breath. This is…

“You’re the god,” he whispers, his mouth falling open in shock. “You—this is your temple.”

The man inclines his head, slowly and regally.

Jesus Christ—or… not, as it turns out. The people who worshipped this god would never have heard of Christianity. “I’m sorry,” Dean blurts out, raising his hands—to placate the god, to defend himself from any divine wrath he may have incurred, he’s really not sure. Either way, the god eyes him with something akin to mild amusement. “I didn’t realize you—you’d still be here. Or that you ever truly existed to be honest, I—I don’t really believe in higher powers or any of that crap.”

Is that offensive to say to a god’s face? If he’s going down, he’s going out with a bang, that’s for sure.

The corners of the god’s eyes crinkle, but the rest of his face remains calm and impassive. “There will always be non-believers,” he says. “I take no offence. You have given my temple new life, and that is all that matters to me.”

Dean lets out a slow breath. Maybe he’s not about to be smote into a thousand tiny pieces. The god’s positive answer gives him the courage to ask the question that has been burning in his mind ever since he started his research—it might be pushing his luck, but Dean didn’t as far as he is today without pushing his luck more than a little.

“What is your name?”

The man exhales, and his eyes close, as though it takes him a great effort to remember. It has been a long time since he was actively worshipped, after all.

“My name… I have had many names. Many titles. But the one I was given from the very beginning…” He exhales, then opens his eyes, and for the first time, there’s the hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“My name is Castiel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/184459168849/happy-birthday-cryptomoon-3-3-somewhere-deep-in).


	53. Endverse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are irreparably broken.

To almost everyone, Dean is sharp-tongued and brittle, all sharp edges and steel and gunpowder. He is firmly-worded orders and the persistent gnaw of under-rationed hunger. He is everything that the End has made him into.

Castiel is the only one who gets to see what he’s really like. What he was before, tainted and made misshapen by what he has to endure but, at the heart of it all, still good.

In the nights they spend together, in the relative safety of Castiel’s bed, they can simply be themselves. They know each other’s worst secrets, after all; there is no need to keep up a mask, a painted façade, when the person kissing over your skin knows the darkest and most twisted parts of you. When Dean is with Castiel, his pretense fractures just enough, and it is Castiel’s practiced hands that grip that fracture and pull, that break him apart until he is no longer what he is to everybody else in the camp. He doesn’t have to be a leader—here, he can be whatever he needs to be. _Cas_ can be whatever Dean needs him to be.

Castiel is also the one to build him back up again; to harness his ever-collapsing entropy and halt it, to put him back together as he once had with his own two hands, so long ago that it feels like a lifetime now. That is what he is to Dean, and Dean is something similar to him, and it’s fucked up, but it’s _them_ , and it _works_.

Besides, everything’s fucked up, these days. He’s still trying to run from it—from the heavy inevitability of it all—but he has the creeping suspicion that soon, his time of running will be up.

For now though… for now, he buries himself in the haze of drugs and sex and pretending the outside world doesn’t exist—that everything isn’t collapsing, that supplies aren’t getting harder to find, that the people they’re losing to the chaos and destruction of the End are _good people_.

And most of all, he buries himself in Dean, in both the metaphorical and biblical senses of the phrase. They spend every possible night together, and it is easy to lose himself not only in the fevered touch of Dean’s hands or the desperate press of his lips, but in the smaller things. The muscles in his back as the dim light from outside filters through ragged curtains and plays over his naked body. The freckles that mark his skin, and the scars that he collects and wears like trophies, more and more added each week. The youth and innocence on his face that Castiel only rarely catches glimpses of when Dean is very deeply asleep.

He doesn’t know if either of them are capable of love, not any more, but this is probably the closest they will ever get again. Because even in the midst of all this entropy, and in the middle of the End, and through all the fucked up things they’ve seen and done together, Castiel still has Dean.

He will _always_ have Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	54. Valentine's Day fake dating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean concocts a plan to score them free dessert--but wouldn't it just be easier without all the pretending?

“Alright, Cas, here’s our story.”

They’re sitting in a booth in one of Dean’s favourite diners, looking up at the promotional banner above the counter. It’s big and pink and peppered with hearts, and it reads:

 _Treat your sugar to some sugar! Free dessert for couples on Valentine’s Day_.

Castiel has never understood the appeal of the holiday, not when he knows how irritating and meddlesome and not at all lovely cupids can be. It clearly means something to humans, though, and especially to Dean, if his fixation on today (and the dessert special, specifically) is anything to go by. Which is why Castiel is indulging him.

“Our story?”

Dean leans forward across the small table and drops his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “We need to pretend to be… y’know, dating. For the free pie. So our story is that we met at a… a…”

“Halloween party,” Castiel suggests, thinking of flickering shadows and blood-red demons. It’s both close to and laughably far from the truth.

Dean raises his eyebrows. “A little ‘high school,’ Cas, but alright. So we met at a Halloween party, we’ve been together for, um… eight months. You love my sense of humour and endless pop culture references, and I love your sex hair and the withering look you give me whenever I call it sex hair.” He pauses, then grins when Castiel scowls obligingly. “Yup, that’s the one.”

Not that Castiel isn’t fond of Dean’s dubbing of his hair—it’s hard not to find most of his mannerisms endearing in some way, at this point. How far he has fallen, in so many ways, and especially for Dean Winchester.

“That sounds like a feasible story,” he tells Dean, folding his hands on the table in front of himself. “I feel confident that I would be able to tell that to our waitress, or even go ‘off script’ if it is needed. But… Dean…” Castiel pauses, thinks over what he’s going to say. “Why didn’t you find an actual date to bring here? Then you wouldn’t have to pretend.”  
Dean blushes all the way to the tips of his ears.

“I… you know, then I’d have to find someone to go with me, and indulge my pie obsession, and no one indulges my bullshit quite like you do.” He smiles quickly, but Castiel can see right through it. “It’s honestly just more fun to hang out with you. And you’re good lookin’ enough that it’s not a hardship pretending to date you,” he says with a wink.

Castiel raises his eyebrows, then says simply, “Why don’t we make it an actual date?”

If Castiel had thought Dean’s cheeks had been as pink as they could go, they manage to blush even darker now. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, as though he can’t quite wrap his head around the question. “An actual date?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, and his lips quirk up into a small smile. “That way, we wouldn’t have to lie to whoever our server is. We can tell them we actually _are_ dating—because between you and me, I believe they’ve been taking bets.” Even from here, he can see two of the regular staff eyeing them as they talk, half-hiding smiles behind their hands.

When he looks back at Dean, Castiel finds him still doing his best impression of a gobsmacked fish. “Let me get this straight,” he says, after a few seconds of silence. “You want this to be a date. A _date_ date, not just a fake date for free pie. Are you… are you just saying that _for_ the free pie? Or do actually want this to be a… _fuck_ , Cas, I don’t know what the hell is going on here.”

Well, that’s a simple enough thing to fix.

“I would like this to be a date,” Castiel says. “I would like to date you, Dean Winchester.”

Dean sits back against the booth and simply looks at Castiel, to the point where he’s not sure what kind of response he’s going to get—Dean has always treated him as if he’s special, as if the two of them are more than just friends, but perhaps he’s misread—

“Okay,” Dean says, and he breaks into a wide, radiant grin that Castiel had not been expecting but had been dearly hoping for. “Alright. It’s a date.”

~

When their server comes over to take their order and asks them how long they’ve been together for, Dean checks the time on his phone and tells her, “Three minutes, give or take.” When the main meal comes, they’re deep in conversation, as though nothing between them has ever changed.

And when their pie is brought out, they share slices, their fingers touching shyly across the tabletop and soft smiles bright enough to light the entire room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	55. Rockstar Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rockstar Dean attempts to win back Cas, his ex-boyfriend, by writing him a song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [If I Can't Have You](http://https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oTJ-oqwxdZY) by Shawn Mendes.

Dean looks out over the city lights of Toronto as the cold wind tousles his clothes, bites at his skin. His glass of whiskey, half-forgotten, is held in tightly curled fingers.

 _This isn’t fucking sustainable, Dean. Running from country to country, chasing your highs, forgetting about everyone who helped you get where you are_.

It’s been two weeks. He’d thought time and distance would help, the endless string of shows and performances serving as a distraction, but it hasn’t. His thoughts keep returning to—

 _It’s going to get to a point where you put your music, your_ ego _, above me every time. It already is. You’re blind if you don’t see it._

He grits his teeth. It’s not selfish to want to be successful. He’s worked so hard to get here, and now that he’s finally achieved his dreams, he shouldn’t be told to step it back. People want more. _Everyone_ wants more.

… _Almost_ everyone.

 _Goodbye, Dean_.

Dean’s hand shakes as he lifts the glass of whiskey to his lips. He takes a tasteless sip, looks out over the hollowly beautiful view for another minute, then turns and walks back into his room.

~

It’s 2am in Montreal, and Dean lies awake in his hotel room, looking at his phone.

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this—he needs a clean break, otherwise it’s going to mess with his head. He trusts that Crowley knows what he’s been talking about, since it’s his management that’s made him so successful, and so he’s _tried_ to stay away from everything that could remind him of…

Of Cas.

Clearly, he’s failing.

Every message that he scrolls past hurts more and more, every sweet flirtation or news about their respective days, shared comments and confessions of fears, aspirations, love. Cas’s absence burns like a hole in his heart, and reading his texts only makes it hurt so fucking much more.

Over and over, he reads: _I love you, I love you, I love you_.

Does Cas even still feel that way about him? Or has he moved on already, too over Dean and the consuming nature of his career to care?

As much as Dean wishes he could say the same, that he’s doing fine on his own and he’s happy…

It’s not the truth.

~

Dean’s hotel room in New York has all the comforts and luxuries that a young music star could ever want, but that’s not what he’s absorbed in right now. Instead, he’s a third of the way through the expensive bottle of rum that was provided to him as a courtesy from the hotel, drunkenly doodling images and random song lyrics into his notebook.

He’s trying to use his newfound insomnia to write new songs, but no matter what avenue he tries to take with his writing, or which themes he focuses on, his thoughts _always_ come back to Cas.

 _He_ always comes back to Cas. And Cas always comes back to him—or he _has_ done, for the last three years they’d been together.

But this time… Dean is starting to realize that Cas may not actually come back. No matter how many times he’s typed out a text, he’s deleted them every single time, and never actually had the guts to reach out.

Likewise, Cas hasn’t contacted him since the night that they fought. The night the he ended… _them_.

And that realization is fucking terrifying, because it’s starting to put things into perspective for Dean.

If he can’t stop thinking about Cas—not even when he’s onstage, or in his hotel with a glass of liquor, or even writing a brand new fucking song—then maybe he made a mistake in letting Cas walk away. Maybe he’s made the biggest fucking mistake of his life.

And if he can’t write a song that’s not about Cas… maybe he should stop trying not to.

He finishes the last of his glass, sets it down, then puts pen to paper and starts to write.

~

The song, in itself, is pretty simple. It’s Dean, in all his essence, saying all the things he would say to Cas and confessing just how much he’s missed him in the time they’ve been apart. It’s a long shot, he knows, and he might have done too much damage to their relationship already, but he _has_ to try.

“Crowley,” he says into his phone, as he sandwiches it between his ear and his shoulder and fiddles around with guitar chords. “This tour is going to be my only one this year. I’ve gotta focus on other things. Can you make sure the press knows before my show tonight?”

“ _What?_ Dean, you—“

Dean cuts his manager off before he can get any further. “I’ve made my decision, Crowley, I won’t let you change my mind. Just get it done.” He hangs up the phone before Crowley can protest much more, and the accented squawking is cut off mid-rant. He’s got more important things to think about—like chord progressions, and performing a completely new song, and whether Cas is going to actually use the ticket and VIP pass that Dean had requested be delivered to his apartment this morning.

~

Dean sits in his dressing room, ten minutes before his show is due to start, and looks down at his phone. The news outlets have been going wild all day with the news that this will be his last and only tour for the year, but he couldn’t care less about that. Amongst all the people who have been texting him or tweeting at him, the one person he _really_ cares about, _really_ wants to hear from, has been radio silent. The most recent text in his conversation with Cas still just says _we need to talk_.

He tosses his phone onto the table in front of him and runs his hands through his hair. Regardless of whether Cas is here tonight, he’s still gonna play the song—he didn’t pull an all-nighter on it for nothing—but the longer it goes without hearing from him…

The more Dean worries that the damage he’s done is totally irreparable.

There’s a knock on his door.

“Come in!” he calls, spinning in his chair to face whoever needs his attention.

It’s Benny.

“Is he here?” Even if it’s not Cas at the door, Benny could still be bringing good news—news of Cas spotted in the venue, Cas waiting in the VIP area, Cas wanting to talk to Dean. Just from the look of Benny’s face, though, Dean can immediately tell that that’s not the case.

“Sorry, Dean. No one’s seen him. I’ve been sent to get you, the show’s supposed to start soon.” He opens his mouth, like he wants to say more, then closes it. “Good luck out there,” he says instead, and then the door closes again.

Dean tries not to deflate, tries not to let the news of Cas’s absence crush him more than it already feels like it is. A lot of people paid good money for their tickets tonight, and he still needs to give them what they came for, regardless of who may or may not be in the audience.

He pours himself a shot of whiskey, downs it in one quick swallow, then stands.

It’s time to put on a show.

~

“How are y’all doing?”

 The stadium erupts in wild screaming that makes Dean’s blood thrum with adrenaline and electricity. _This_ is why he loves performing live—the energy that he gets from the crowd has to be one of the most incredible sensations he’s ever felt in his life, and he smiles out at his audience.

“Alright, this next song is… kinda special, actually. I wrote it last night, and this is the first time I’m performing it for anyone, let alone several thousand anyones, so…” He laughs and shakes his head as he takes the offered acoustic guitar from a stagehand. “If it’s no good, then I’m sorry. But I wrote it for someone pretty f— _damn_ amazing, and I was really dumb to let him go, so… if you’re out there, you know who you are.”

That’s all he can say right now, before his nerves and his fears get the better of him. There’s more, so much more, but it’s all for Cas’s ears only (if he ever gets a chance to say it) and so for now, he sits down on his stool, sets his guitar against his thigh, and begins to play.

_I can’t write one song that’s not about you…_

He can’t hear the audience past his earpieces, so he can get lost in the music, in the chords and his voice and the feelings that well up inside him. The hopelessness, the inability to move on, the longing and the feeling of _wrong time, wrong mindset_.

He sings out his feelings, everything he wishes he could say to Cas, closing his eyes halfway through and just letting himself go. So much to say, so much still left unsaid, so many feelings bottled up inside him with no way out. Even if Cas isn’t here to hear this tonight, at least it’s a start.

When he opens his eyes again, towards the end of the song, there’s a commotion by the front barriers, people turning to look at someone and the crowd making way for them and then—

And then Cas is standing there, pressed against the barrier and looking up at Dean, one person in a sea of thousands but the only person who matters most to Dean in this single moment.

His heart breaks open, raw and vulnerable, and he fumbles the next chord in front of an entire stadium full of people but it doesn’t matter because _Cas is here_. This means that maybe, _hopefully_ , he’s willing to give Dean a second chance.

He plays the last few chords, sings the last few lines as he watches a reluctant smile tug at the corners of Cas’s mouth, and barely lets the last note ring out before he’s putting his guitar down and jumping down off the front of the stage. His security team move to intercept him as he nears the barriers, but Benny must say something into the comms, because they step down after only a moment.

There’s nothing standing in between him and Cas now but a metal barrier, and Dean closes the distance eagerly, as though it’s just the two of them and no one else. Cas reaches for him as he gets close, curls his fingers into the lapels of his jacket and kisses him. The crowd screams. Dean doesn’t care.

The kiss only lasts a few brief moments, but there’s _so much_ in it. There’s relief, and frustration, and the joy of being reunited. There’s passion.

There’s _Cas_.

When they separate, Cas’s hands still cling to Dean’s jacket, as though he’s unwilling to let him drift away again. Dean leans close, the edge of the barrier biting into his chest. “You came,” he says, breathless and exhilarated. _Cas is really here_.

“I did.” His voice is quiet over the noise of the crowd. Dean leans in closer to hear him, always gravitating into his pull.

“You didn’t use the pass I gave you.”

Cas gives him a wry look, one eyebrow raised. “I bought my own ticket, Dean. Are you really cancelling the rest of the tours you were planning to do later this year?”

“Yeah. Someone made me realize that there are more important things than how many chart toppers I can release and how many stadiums I can sell out.” He pauses for a second, then adds, “It’s you, Cas. You’re the important thing. _And_ the someone. Just in case it wasn’t clear.”

For the first time, Cas grins, wide and gummy and happier than Dean has seen him in a long time. “It was clear, Dean, but thank you. It means a lot to me that you’ve thought about what I said. Really.”

Dean’s heart flip flops in his chest, and he grins like an idiot. “I don’t know how I ever thought I could put anything above you, Cas. I… I need you. I want to make this work.”

The corners of Cas’s eyes crinkle. This time when he pulls Dean in for another kiss, it’s softer. Gentler. “Me too,” he says when they pull away, and the corners of his lips curl up. “I think you have a show to finish. I’ll meet up with you after?”

Dean can’t think of a more perfect way to end the night. “Deal,” he says, but as he turns away to head back up to the stage, Cas grabs him loosely by the wrist to get his attention back.

“Oh, and Dean?” He grins, and Dean leans back in, enthralled by him and whatever it is he has to add. Cas squeezes his wrist gently, his eyes soft.

“I really liked the song.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	56. Geek Cas/Jock Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jock Dean is head over heels for Cas.

Everyone knows that Castiel Novak is the class nerd. Always dressed in t-shirts with obscure references, his book bag covered in pins, worn red converse tied up tightly and the soles duct taped where they’re starting to come apart. His glasses are thick-rimmed, his hair is always a mess, but despite his somewhat eccentric appearance, he’s generally pretty well-liked. He’s smart, and nice (if a little quiet), and so people leave him alone.

And if it’s common knowledge that Castiel is the geek, then it’s also common knowledge that Dean Winchester is the soccer star who’s hopelessly head over heels for him.

Dean finds every excuse to be in Castiel’s vicinity, whether it’s studying a table over or talking to his friends nearby or even just picking a close seat in class. Around every other student in their classes, he’s smooth, confident, easy to talk to. Around Cas? Dean becomes a blushing mess, stammering his way through sentences. Every time he’s watching Castiel while the other boy isn’t looking, his heart eyes are almost palpable.

It feels as though the whole school is holding its breath, waiting for one of the two to make a move. There have been betting pools going for months as to how and when it will finally happen—but no one is expecting it when it does.

It’s raining outside, hard enough that the gym has flooded and the parking lot outside resembles the local swimming pool. The students already inside the school are all of various shades of damp to drenched, and it’s a few minutes before the first bell rings that Castiel and Dean make their way inside.

In one hand, Castiel holds his red converse, the canvas soaked and the duct tape beginning to peel off the soles. On his feet instead are a battered but clearly well-loved pair of boots—ones that everyone knows to be Dean Winchester’s pride and joy. His _Doctor Sexy_ boots.

His other hand holds open the door behind him, and a moment later Dean follows him through, closing an umbrella and giving it a few shakes out for good measure. They share a smile as the door swings closed—a private smile, one just for the two of them—and crowd close almost without thinking. Shoulders touching, elbows bumping, Dean’s head ducked slightly down to Castiel’s level, they take each other’s hands.

Everyone knows that Dean and Castiel have been hopelessly in love with each other for the best part of a year—

And now, finally, it seems as though they know it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	57. Glassblowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel controls his fall by imbuing a tiny piece of his grace into every glassblown creation he makes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Foxymoley's](http://foxymoley.tumblr.com) birthday, and inspired by [this art](http://https://foxymoley.tumblr.com/post/185101479408/cas-blows-glass-and-puts-a-tiny-amount-of-his).

Ever since it began, Castiel has been terrified of falling.

For all of creation—or as much of it as he has existed for, at least—he has been an angel. An angel with wings, and grace. A warrior of heaven.

And then he met Dean, and he gave it all up, _everything_ , for his Righteous Man.

Not that he regrets any of his decisions, not at all. He’d do anything for Dean. But the idea of falling, of suddenly being stripped of his grace… it scares him.

So he distracts himself.

He turns to different outlets; writing, crafts, creation. Castiel tries metalwork and knitting, pottery and poetry, but none of it works. None of it helps.

It’s only when he visits a glass studio, after weeks of searching for something that will work, that he finds what he’s been looking for. He spends hours sitting there, mesmerized by the artist and his slow, careful creation of a glassblown bowl. Half an hour before the studio is set to close, the man pauses in his work, raises his eyebrows at Castiel where he’s been quietly sitting and watching, and asks if he’d like to have a try.

Glassblowing, it turns out, is the perfect outlet for Castiel’s desperate need for a creative distraction. And, when he produces a tiny, glowing paperweight (much to the confusion of the glass artist), he finds that it also serves a completely different purpose entirely.

If he instils a tiny piece of his grace into each piece of art that he makes, then he can fall _slowly_. He’s still falling—he’s made his peace with that, mostly—but he gets to control it. He’s _choosing_ his fall, and how he lets go of his grace, instead of losing it to fate.

And so he sets up, with Dean’s help, his very own studio in an old building outside the bunker. His request gets him an odd look at first, but Dean has long since learned not to question Castiel’s odd habits, so he goes along with it. Dean handles the ordering of all the supplies and equipment, and they work hard once everything has arrived to get it set up, until Cas has his very own glassblowing studio.

He’s known exactly what he wants to make for a while now, but it’s complicated in a few different ways, and it’s going to take some practice to reach that level of competence. Instead, he sets about first making smaller items, some practical and some purely artistic; blue-speckled twists or spheres of blown glass.

Slowly, he gets better and better at his craft, and with each piece that he creates, his grace is depleted further.

As he practices, he keeps thinking about that special idea. He doesn’t go as far as putting pencil to paper and _designing_ it, but he thinks about it a lot, watches it take shape in his mind. When his next order of sand and oxides arrives, he experiments with the colours, the balance, until he gets it just right for what he’s been seeing in his head.

And then, one afternoon, when he’s finished all his other projects and is looking for something new to do…

He figures he may as well get started.

It takes a few tries—what Castiel has envisioned is complex, and he _is_ technically still a novice glassblower—but after a few days, and his grace more expended than he’s used to, he manages to get it right. It’s with aching arms and skin damp with sweat that he steps back to admire his finished piece.

The glass takes hours to cool, and by the time Castiel is able to handle it with his bare hands, night has long since fallen outside. He wraps it carefully in a cloth and cradles it against his chest as he leaves his studio and makes his way back inside the bunker. Today has taken more out of him than he’d expected, and he feels… almost depleted. There’s not much of his grace left inside him, but that’s okay.

He makes his way through the bunker quietly, trying to figure out where Dean and Sam are. Sam is likely still in the library, buried in research for their newest case, but Dean… Dean could be anywhere.

Eventually, Castiel finds him in his room, lying on his bed and reading a dog-eared copy of  _Slaughterhouse Five_. He clears his throat in the doorway, and Dean glances up, then sits up once he sees who it is. “Cas. Hey,” he says, closing the book and setting it aside on his nightstand. “You alright?”

“Yes, Dean.” A smile curls Castiel’s lips, and he shifts his grip on his armful of cloth and glass. “I’m alright. I… I have a gift for you.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, gaze dropping to the bundle in Castiel’s arms and then returning to his face. “Something you made? For me?” Slowly, a small smile curls his lips, as though he can’t quite believe that Cas would _make_ something for _him_. “Can I see?”

The bundle of cloth feels heavy in Castiel’s arms as he carries it over to Dean’s nightstand. He’s put so much of himself into this—so much of his emotion, his thoughts, his _grace_. Carefully, he sets the bundle down, then unwraps the cloth from it to reveal his gift.

It’s a lamp, made of glass as dark as the night sky. It’s tall and twisting and elegant, dotted with tiny pockets of glass that glow silver-blue. Beside him, Castiel hears Dean inhale sharply, and when he looks over, Dean’s eyes are wide.

“You… you made this for me?” he asks, and there’s an awed tone to his voice. “Cas, it’s beautiful, I—“

“Wait.”

Castiel reaches out to touch the base of the lamp, pressing his fingers to the only shallow indent in the glass creation. Slowly, the room dims, and a gentle blue light grows in the centre of the lamp, until there’s a glowing tendril within the glass that twists up from the base of the lamp to the very tip.

And on the walls, on the ceiling, projected onto every surface of the room, is the night sky.

Galaxies, collapsing stars, every marvel and wonder of space, here on the bedroom walls of Dean Winchester. For a good minute, they both look; Dean open-mouthed at the quiet beauty of Castiel’s piece, and Castiel with a soft gaze at the only person he would ever go to such lengths for in all of creation.

“Cas,” Dean breathes, and when his gaze returns to Castiel, his eyes are wide, and full of wonder. He’s smiling, wide and soft and full of the same emotion that thrums beneath Castiel’s sternum. “I… thank you. It’s beautiful.”

It’s everything that has been said between them, but also everything that is still yet to be said. They have a lifetime for those things, but now, Dean knows.

They sit side by side on Dean’s bed and watch the stars, and when Castiel quietly takes Dean’s hand and interlaces their fingers, neither of them are truly surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	58. Reversed Reverse!Verse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharply dressed demon Dean meets with scrappy punk angel Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written as a birthday gift for [Tumblr](http://c-kaeru.tumblr.com)!

The parking lot is empty. Abandoned. Overhead, the moon shines feebly through the obscuring veil of cloud, and the single strongest point of light emanates from a dusty streetlamp, washing over the cracked pavement.

Just outside the lamp’s reach sits a sleek, black car, and against the car leans a single man; suited, sharply dressed.

Waiting.

It’s been almost twenty minutes now, and it’s not unlike the person Dean’s meeting to be late—because when you’ve existed for so many millennia, what’s a few extra minutes here and there—but it’s beginning to make him antsy.

He paces back and forth, scuffing the sole of his Oxford lightly over the cracked, weed-sprouting pavement, then checks his watch once more. _Maybe he’s not coming_ , he thinks—but then again, they’re both invested in this. They’re both _risking things_ for this. Hopefully it’s just a matter of waiting him out until he decides to show.

Dean ducks down and checks his reflection in the window of his car—brushes a speck of debris from the curve of his horn, checks his hair, runs his tongue across the front of his teeth. His eyes flicker black, then return to their green colour, and he smirks at his reflection.

“Who are you trying to impress?”

The voice is gravelly, rough. Dean spins on his heel, angry at himself for letting his guard slip for just ten seconds out of twelve hundred, but relieved beyond anything that his waiting hasn’t been for nothing.

Solid black boots step into the pool of light cast by the lamp, attached to legs clad in dark, ripped jeans. The shoulders of the angel’s jacket are covered in patches, and tattoos curl out across the visible areas of his skin. The metal of his piercings and his silver-dappled wings catch the moonlight, the full expanse of dark feathers becoming visible as Castiel steps closer.

“Just myself,” Dean quips, and he feels his heart double-beat against his ribs at the way Cas smirks. “Did anyone follow you?”

“Not that I know of.” Cas takes a few steps forward, hands pushed into the pockets of his jacket and wings sweeping out around him as he moves. When Dean levels an unimpressed glare at him, he just chuckles quietly, the sound rich and full in the nighttime quiet. “You know no one followed me, Dean. No one can ever follow me unless I _want_ them to.”

_He chases the angel away from the thick of the battle, his suit blending in with the darkness and power coiling at his fingertips. The angel looks over his shoulder, silver-black wings arched and defensive, blade gleaming in his hand. There’s no way he can see Dean._

_Or so he thinks—until he rounds a corner and finds himself pressed up against the side of the building without warning, an angel blade at his throat._

_He’s dead. He should be dead._

_…Why isn’t he dead?_

“Okay,” Dean admits begrudgingly, “that’s a fair point.” Despite the boots and the huge wings and the chain at his hip, Cas is really fucking good at being sneaky when he needs to. They haven’t been followed, then. It’s just them, in this abandoned parking lot inside Dean’s wardings. No politics, no never-ending war, just… them.

Castiel moves first, in measured footsteps and with an air about him that never fails to make Dean weak at the knees. His wings flare, stretching out wide in a captivating flex of muscle and ripple of feathers, and in a matter of seconds Dean finds himself backed up against his car. There’s barely an inch between them, Cas’s wings bracketing Dean on either side, and it’s a good thing that Dean doesn’t need to breathe because all he can focus on right now is the heat radiating off Castiel, and how fucking _good_ the angel looks. He’d never thought he’d be one for the scruffy, rebellious types up in Heaven, but fuck, was he wrong.

Cas’s eyes drop down to Dean’s lips, then flick back up to meet his gaze. That _fucking smirk_ is back, the one that drives Dean crazy so effortlessly. “You really know how to pick the locations,” Cas murmurs. This close, his voice is quiet, a deep rumble that resonates through to Dean’s bones and _certainly_ goes straight to his dick. “You couldn’t have chosen somewhere with a bed this time? I guess demons _do_ have a flair for the dramatic…”

“Shut up,” Dean growls. It’s too much talking, too much dancing around each other, and if this keeps going, he’s going to vibrate out of his skin. They only have so much limited time together.

Which is why he reaches up, curls his fingers into the front of Castiel’s jacket, and kisses him.

Like each of the previous times they’ve met, it’s quick, hurried, and _hot_. Their time is finite, precious, and there’s no point in wasting it. Dean knows that, and from the way Cas kisses him back like it’s the last time they’ll have together, hands finding their way beneath the layers of Dean’s suit and pressing him back against his car, he knows it too.

Cas takes great pleasure in making Dean come apart, mussing up his perfect exterior—and for a demon, the fact that Dean is _happy_ to let Cas, an angel, do just that… it’s not something he wants to read too much into. Not now. Not yet.

Instead, he treasures these stolen moments with Cas. They’re from opposite sides, orderly evil and chaotic good, so much so that this, whatever it is between them, _shouldn’t exist_. But as they lie in the backseat of Dean’s car, Cas running an idle fingertip along the curve of Dean’s horn and Dean tracing the patterns of the tattoos that he now knows so well, both of them out of breath but sated and happier than they’ve been in a long time…

He can’t help but wish that things between them could be different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	59. Space prison break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison officer Dean's ship crashes into the most infamous prison in the galaxy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet now has an amazing podfic by [zaffre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaffre/pseuds/zaffre)! Read it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20345149).

Out on the very edges of the solar system, past the point where any civilian would dare to venture, Dean Winchester pilots the vessel 1MP4L4 towards one of the most notorious prisons in the galaxy.

Someone has to draw the short straw of doing the bi-monthly cargo run out to the prisoners and staff, and this time, that unlucky motherfucker is Dean. It’s a week-long trip in the old, slow spacecraft that the Alliance allocates to the lower-ranked corrections staff, and by now, Dean is so bored that he would give  _anything_ to be back at his desk filling out paperwork instead.

All it is is a routine cargo run.

At least, that’s what it was _supposed_ to be.

Out of the emptiness of space, the prison slowly comes into view, a tiny speck that first blends in amongst the stars but finally solidifies itself as an actual structure. It’s remarkably unremarkable; dark metal against grey rock, built on a chunk of space debris orbiting an ancient moon. From looking at it, it’s almost impossible to discern that the prison houses only a small handful of the most dangerous enemies to the Alliance in the entire galaxy.

Dean knows better, though.

Once he’s almost in contacting distance, he settles himself into his pilot seat and buckles in, then prepares to engage the manual controls. Just an hour’s work of moving the cargo, and then he can begin the long trip back to civilisation. He rolls out his neck, reaches for the joystick, then flips the switch to engage his controls.

Nothing happens.

The ship doesn’t slow, doesn’t respond. The _manual_ light doesn’t even turn on, so it’s not even _pretending_ to be working. Instead, the 1MP4L4 continues to hurtle towards the prison at a speed suitable for interspace travel, but most certainly _not_ ideal for approaching his destination, let alone a finicky docking routine.

“What the fuck,” Dean mutters, flicking the switch off and then on again. When it doesn’t work, he swears again, louder and more creatively. Dean reaches for the comms button and presses it with one hand, the other still frantically trying to engage the manual control. “Detainment Facility Delta, this is cargo envoy One-India-Miko-Four-Lima-Four, manual controls have failed and I cannot override the autopilot. I repeat, _manual controls have failed and I cannot override the autopilot_.” There’s no response, just crackling static from the prison’s end, but suddenly that becomes the least of Dean’s problems.

An error appears on his screen, and Dean’s eyes widen as he reads it.

_Foreign control identified. Manual override unavailable._

“Mayday, mayday!” he shouts, trying every possible solution he knows as his ship hurtles towards the prison that is now growing rapidly larger in his front window. If he can’t shut it down, he’s royally fucked. This is _not_ how he wanted to go—smashed into tiny pieces against the side of the most remote prison in the galaxy, just because his ship refused to obey him.

He’s frantic now, pressing any button that might even remotely help while shouting into his comms unit, but none of them help. In fact, none of them have _any_ effect at all. Something else is in control of Dean’s ship now, and it’s all he can do to brace himself and hope that he makes it out alive.

The prison looms closer and closer, and the ship doesn’t stop, just keeps hurtling directly towards the prison wall. Dean watches as he passes through the outer shield, the gravity zone, the oxygen bubble. There’s no hope, now.

He braces himself against the control panel and closes his eyes—

The ship brakes at the very last second, just enough to lessen the impact slightly, but it’s far too late.

There’s a _bang_ , and a split second where Dean feels all his forward momentum just _stop_ , and then everything goes black.

~

The dust is slow to clear as Castiel Novak stands in the very back corner of his cell and uncovers his face to reveal the aftermath of the crash.

His little computer, cobbled together from reused tele-screen and cleaning robot parts, lies discarded in the corner, no longer of use. It served its purpose of hacking into both the mainframe of the cargo ship and in overriding the locking mechanism of his cell, and now freedom is within his grasp.

The dust from his half-destroyed cell wall settles to reveal the nose of the cargo ship where it intrudes into Castiel’s cell. The old ships are slow but sturdy, and Castiel had _hoped_ that it would be enough to break through, but actually seeing his success is so much more invigorating than he could ever have planned.

The front window looks a little cracked, and he can see the silhouette of the pilot inside, slumped in his chair, but neither of those facts concern him right now. As long as everything holds together long enough for him to make it to the nearest port and disappear, he’ll be home scot-free.

Not wanting to waste any time before the wardens arrive at his cell and find that it can’t be unlocked, Cas clambers over the stones from the wall and hits the button for the ship’s hatch to open. For the first time in six months, he’s going to be _free_ again, and he can’t wait.

He’s quick to make his way through to the cockpit, barely giving the pilot a second glance as he leans over the control panel and does a quick assessment of the damage. Cracked window, as he’d suspected, and a few failed shield-points, but nothing crucial to his escape. “You’re a sturdy lady,” he murmurs, then sets about priming the ship for take-off.

Now that Castiel’s device is no longer blocking communications, the warden’s voice and threats come crackling through the speakers, but he simply switches them off. He needs to focus, despite the satisfaction in hearing that he’s bested the Alliance once again.

The ship’s computer lights up, telling Castiel that he’s ready to depart, and he can’t keep the grin off his face as he wraps his fingers around the joystick. He’d told the wardens that they wouldn’t be able to hold him, and they’d laughed at him, but now…

Once again, all of space is his oyster.

Castiel pulls back on the joystick, settles into the controls of his stolen ship, and gives the prison a middle finger salute as he speeds away.

~

It’s only once he’s been flying for about an hour and put a decent amount of distance between himself and the prison that Castiel lets himself consider the man still strapped into the pilot’s seat behind him.

From the shallow rise and fall of his chest, it’s clear that he’s still alive, at least, but whether he was injured in the crash, Cas can’t be sure. There’s a cut on his forehead that’s been bleeding sluggishly, and he still hasn’t come to, but the longer he can stay unconscious, the better that is for Castiel.

Unfortunately, the guy doesn’t stay out for long.

Castiel has just finished tying his hands together behind the chair when he begins to stir, his head lolling and eyelashes fluttering. He’s pretty, Castiel had noticed earlier—skin dotted with freckles, nice cheekbones, full lips. And when his eyes open, slowly and hazed with confusion…

They’re a shade of green that Castiel hasn’t seen in so long that it takes his breath away.

“What th’ fuck…”

Castiel takes a sharp step back as the man’s bleary gaze focuses on him. The guy squints, his nose crinkling, and in that moment before the realisation kicks in, he’s truly beautiful.

And then his eyes widen, and he sucks in a quick breath.

“ _Castiel_ _Novak_.”

Castiel should have known that his reputation would precede him, especially among those who work for the Alliance. Hell, he’s been paid to kill so many of their corrupt administration so many times that he’d be surprised if he _wasn’t_ mentioned in the training of new cadets as public enemy number one. But seeing this beautiful man close off before his eyes…

It stings a little.

“That’s me,” he says, lips quirking up in a quick, tight smile. “And you are?”

The man pulls against the ropes binding his hands—sluggishly, like he still isn’t _fully_ conscious yet—and scowls. “Winchester,” he bites out after a few moments. Castiel raises his eyebrow and waits patiently for a handful more seconds, until the guy adds a reluctant;

“…Dean.”

“Well, Dean,” Castiel says, turning back towards the control panel. “Nice to meet you. I wish it wasn’t under these circumstances, but…” He shrugs one shoulder, tapping the computer screen and making a few adjustments to the autopilot’s trajectory. “Desperate times and all that. And now that you’re aiding and abetting my escape, I doubt you really want me to let you go. So I’m very sorry, but you’re stuck with me.”

The guy— _Dean_ —blinks at him. Castiel hopes that it’s the concussion slowing his thought processes and not the fact that he’s been saddled with an idiot, otherwise he’s going to let him off at the nearest port, pretty face or not.

“You’re really that dangerous that the Alliance would rather kill me than accept me back into their ranks, huh?” Dean says quietly, leaning his head back against the chair and watching Castiel with an unreadable expression.

Castiel rolls his eyes and leans one hip against the control panel—he doesn’t miss the way Dean’s gaze follows the movement, or the way his eyes flick over his silver jumpsuit, to his lips, up to his eyes. _Interesting_. “Trust me, _Dean_ ,” he murmurs, “I’m more dangerous than anyone you’ve ever met. If you want to be let off at the next station and risk your luck with the Alliance, fine by me. But I’ve killed members of the Alliance, and I’ve killed _for_ members of the Alliance, so you might want to listen when I tell you that you’re better off sticking with the interplanetary assassin than you are going back to your employers. _Especially_ if they think you were even partly responsible for my escape.”

Dean stares at him, his thoughts clearly processing behind those pretty green eyes. It’s a lot to lay on someone all at once—and to be honest, Castiel isn’t even really sure _why_ he’s giving the guy this option. He _should_ just be getting rid of him, but there’s something about this man; whether it’s his attractiveness or the way he’s watching Castiel, thoughtfully, with an _edge_ behind his eyes that suggests that he might be able to keep up with Cas instead of slowing him down.

Either way, he’s intrigued.

For a few long moments, the only sound between them is the humming of the ship’s engine and the quiet whirr of the control panel. Dean bounces his leg as he thinks, but his gaze never leaves Castiel’s face.

Finally, he nods. “Yeah,” he says, quietly at first, and then more decisively. “Yeah, okay. I’ll stay with you at least until I see how the Alliance reacts to your escape—but if I change my mind, you’ll let me go, yeah?”

Castiel shrugs, allowing himself a pleased smile at Dean’s decision. “Of course. But—“

He cuts himself off as the computer screen flashes with an Alliance-issued emergency announcement. Two photos flash up: one of Castiel’s mugshot, and the other of Dean’s staff ID photograph. _Dangerous fugitives_ , the text reads. _Apprehend at all costs_.

Dean pales slightly as he stares at his own photograph, whereas Castiel just chuckles. He pats Dean on the thigh as he circles around the chair, then pulls his knife out of his belt and slices through the ropes binding Dean’s hands.

“Would you look at that,” he murmurs next to Dean’s ear. “Looks like you’re an outlaw now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	60. 100 word drabbles (NEW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of short drabbles from the profound100 game run on the [Profound Bond discord](https://discord.gg/ARS3D3C).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: Storm (with stunning [art](https://midnightsilver.tumblr.com/post/181781690205/saltnhalo-thunder-rumbles-overhead-as-he) from [MidnightSilver](https://midnightsilver.tumblr.com)). 2: Bunny. 3: Fire. 4: Coffee. 5: Dolphin. 6: Letters. 7: Rose. 8: Danger. 9: Folklore. 10: Inferno. 11: Luck. 12: Hunger (with [graphic](https://midnightsilver.tumblr.com/post/185383595865/missjenniferb-saltnhalo-dean-kneels-in-the) by [MidnightSilver](https://midnightsilver.tumblr.com)). 13: Stripper. 14: Runaway. 15: Towel. 16: Egg. 17: Baby. 18: Prophecy. 19: Prank. 20: Ocean. 21: Glass. 22: Spirit. 23: Pride. 24: Photograph. 25: Competition. 26: Roadtrip. 27: Moon. 28: Craving. 29: Graffiti. 30: Undercover.

1.

Thunder rumbles overhead as he unfurls his great wings, black feathers stretching towards the achingly grey sky. The storm builds, clouds gathering above and the wind whipping across the hilltop, pulling at the lone angel’s trench coat.

His wings are battle-scarred and broken, his shoulders heavy with the weight of his grief. So many dead, so much lost, and he feels it all. He tips his face towards the darkened sky—towards his home, now unreachable, his feet moored to this earth.

A single tear tracks down his cheek as the skies open; soon, it is lost amongst the rain.

(all art [here](https://midnightsilver.tumblr.com/post/181781690205/saltnhalo-thunder-rumbles-overhead-as-he))

 

2.

Castiel and Sam watch Dean from a distance as he glares down at the table, where the rabbit’s foot sits innocently in front of him. So far today, since he found it in the storage locker they’ve been cleaning out, he’s shattered a carton of vials, misplaced his favourite gun, and burnt the burgers that were meant for dinner.

“When are you planning to tell him that it’s a fake foot from a toy bunny?” Castiel turns his gaze on Sam, who tries (and fails) to hide his grin behind his hand.

“Soon, Cas. This is the best prank ever.”

 

3.

Dean has been hurt so many times in his life. He’s been kicked, punched, stabbed, thrown through walls. He’s watched his family and his friends die, and he’s spent forty long years in hell.

He’s endured so much pain, in life and even in death, and yet.

This is a grief so raw that it feels like it’s tearing him apart, as he watches the flames of the fire burn steadily on. Lighting that pyre was the most painful thing he’s ever done, because he _knows_. No matter how much he hopes or prays or begs…

Cas isn’t coming back.

 

4.

Cas is always a grumpy son of a bitch in the mornings.

For a long time, he’d been totally insufferable—glaring at the world as though it had done him a personal offense. The only thing that ever fixed his mood was a large cup of coffee, and it was always Dean who made it for him, greeting him with a mug and a smile every morning.

Nowadays, though, they don’t need coffee. Dean wakes Castiel up slowly, with drowsy kisses and fingertips skating over skin, limbs tangled loosely beneath rumpled sheets and the dawn quietly breaking outside their window.

 

5.

Far above the trees, where the clouds touch the sky and that blue-white openness is all the eye can see, Castiel flies. He is to the sky what a dolphin is to the waves; beautiful, elegant, powerful. This is his home, and he owns it with grace, great black wings flexing to catch every current and updraft. The wind blows against his hair, his feathers, and he laughs joyfully.

Dean stands on the ground, his feet forever shackled to the earth. With one hand lifted to shade his eyes from the brightness of the sun, he watches, and he longs.

 

6.

Six months ago, Dean lost his best friend.

A car accident, he'd found out, staring disbelievingly at the ceiling of his bedroom with his phone pressed against his ear. His heart had been irreparably broken that day. Cas had been his everything, and Dean…

Dean never got to tell him how he felt.

He sits by the fogged up bedroom window now and traces letters onto the glass. _I love you_ , they say—words Cas will never hear, never know how deeply Dean means them.

Dean stares at the frost-inked words until they blur, silent tears rolling down his cheeks.

 

7.

They learned how to do this at school last week, and now Dean focuses all of his magic into the patch of earth before him. Slowly, a plant sprouts, growing and unfurling until it becomes a single, red-petaled rose. Dean grins giddily, risking a glance over at the other young witch who kneels beside him. Cas is looking at the rose with wide eyes, and when he glances over at Dean, he smiles, bright and radiant.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Cas,” he says, and he doesn’t get to say much more before Cas kisses him.

 

8.

“…Dean… discovered… in danger—get out… got to go… safe…—ove you.”

The message ends. The phone is dropped onto the floor: one sharp stomp shatters it into pieces.

The man surveys his captor, tied to the metal chair in front of him with his head lolling against his chest. It’s only a matter of time before he wakes, and not much longer until their plan—their _trap_ —will fall into place. He smiles, sharp and cold and ruthless, and in the darkness of the room, his eyes flicker to black.

They have the bait. Now the angel will come.

 

9.

The forest is steeped in folklore and mystery. So many people have stories of a daughter, a husband, someone beloved who disappeared beyond those trees and never returned.

Dean knows the stories. He’s one of the few people that doesn’t have one. No one close to him has been coerced by the darkness that lurks beyond the safety of torchlight and the village walls, and no one has ever gone in of their own accord.

Until Dean wakes one cold morning to an empty bed and a trail of footprints leading towards the forest.

That night, he becomes the first.

 

10.

Dean doesn’t get sick often, but when he does, it puts him fully out of commission.

Somehow, this time feels worse than usual, his body burning up like an inferno. He’s too hot and too cold all at once, and he shakes feverishly, curled up beneath mounds of blankets. Sam comes and goes, keeping an eye on him, but Cas is a constant presence by his side. “I wish I could heal you,” he whispers, when he thinks Dean can’t hear.

In his rare moments of lucidity, Dean wishes he could tell him:

E _ven without your grace, you are enough_.

 

11.

Dean plays to his looks, his youth, the naivety of _what could possibly go wrong?_ when he bets fifty dollars on himself to win. In the first game, he loses, leaning on his cue stick as he pleas with the regulars for a rematch.

When they agree, the stakes doubled, is when things start to go wrong. Dean sinks his balls with practiced ease, trouncing his opponents soundly and with a smirk that never wavers. The naïve façade is gone—except, as he collects his winnings after the game, he shrugs one shoulder and grins.

“Must have been beginner’s luck.”

 

12. 

Dean kneels in the middle of the floor; a mockery of worship with his ink-black eyes and the curve of a smirk that never truly disappears. He kneels, and he waits, bound by red paint on rough concrete and the whispered order of “ _wait_.”

He has lost track of how much time has passed before the doors open. When he looks up, there is hunger in his gaze, in the way he holds himself.

The angel scrapes at the paint with his foot. The devil’s trap breaks.

Slowly, Dean rises to his feet.

“Come, Dean. We have work to do.”

 

13.

Dean is washing his car in the garage when he hears footsteps behind him, feels a warm body press up behind his back. “Hey there,” he says with a grin, ignoring his cleaning for a second to lean back against Cas.

“Hello yourself,” Cas murmurs, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of Dean’s low-slung daisy dukes. “I think I like these better off than on.”

Dean groans at the tease. “I’m not some kind of stripper, babe, _although_ …” He rests his head back against Cas’s shoulder and smirks. “If you ask nicely, I could be persuaded to give you a show.”

 

14. 

When Dean Winchester leaves the motel on his own with a duffel on his shoulder, it is raining.

Castiel watches the teenaged runaway from the shelter of a building as he wipes at his eyes and climbs into the car. There is no telling where he will go, how long he will leave for, what he will do. It is Castiel’s job to do nothing but watch and report, even when he aches for the boy in his search for guidance, for love.

There are big plans for that human. It is too early to interfere.

The rain continues on.

 

15. 

It’s a little while before Cas finally gets comfortable being in Dean’s space. 

He’s been worried about crossing the lines that Dean has drawn for so many years, and it takes a lot of coaxing and reassurance to get him to loosen up and trust that this isn’t a trick. Whether it’s holding hands over morning coffee, or wandering around in just a towel post-shower, or falling asleep together every night, Dean _wants_ Cas with him.

They’ve missed out on so much, in all the time that Dean’s wasted being a dumbass. It’s time they start making up for it.

 

16.

Dean had thought everything would change, in the _after_ , but in reality… it hasn’t.

He’s in his bathrobe, nursing a mug of coffee while he cracks eggs into the pan and watches them cook. For now it’s just him, standing alone in the kitchen while he makes breakfast and lets himself slowly wake up. It’s a morning just like any other morning, and yet.

An arm wraps around his waist, a warm body pressing against his back. Cas’s chin rests on his shoulder, and he wordlessly reaches down to borrow Dean’s coffee.

Dean smiles, soft and happy.  _There’s_ the change _._

17.

Dean’s car has always been his sanctuary.

He’s lived in her for as long as he can remember, his initials carved into her door, his lego blocks rattling in the vents. Every piece of her is home to him. Whenever he needs his space, he’ll get behind the wheel of his Baby and drive—wherever, whenever, with no set location in mind. Nothing but him and the open road.

Back when he was alone, it didn’t matter where he went. Now, though, no matter how upset he is, how far he drives… he always returns.

To the bunker.

To Cas.

 

18.

Ever since the beginning of his creation, Castiel has known of the prophecy.

One day, a human will walk the earth, and he will be Castiel’s soulmate. He will be the one who makes Castiel’s grace sing, who completes him in a way no other being could, who was created _just for him_.

But he is the only angel with a human soulmate. It cannot be allowed.

When he finally feels the pull in his grace after thousands of years of waiting, Castiel looks down from Heaven to the one place he has never been permitted to go, and _yearns_.

 

19.

The Winchester prank war is flaring up again.

There’s no way to avoid it—it’s a cycle that Sam and Dean have been going through for years, ever since they were kids. This time, Dean is winning, Sam is off sulking in the library, and Cas is clearly getting more and more fed up with their bullshit. Dean is sure that he’s going to come out the champion this time—

Until he wakes up the next morning to find all their jars of coffee grounds encased in ice, and Cas sitting smugly at the breakfast table.

“Son of a _bitch_.”

 

20.

Castiel stands at the edge of the ocean and looks out over the waves.

So many millennia ago, he’d stood at a spot similar to this one. He’s seen empires rise and fall, life begin and end, people come and go. He is ageless, timeless, ever-present in a world that has changed drastically in what feels like a mere blink of an eye.

So sometimes, when he puts that into perspective…

It’s overwhelming to realize that the years he has spent on earth with the Winchesters have meant more to him than anything in the rest of his whole existence.

 

21.

Cas pushes Dean against the wall, hands fisted in his jacket, body warm and solid. “You _idiot_ ,” he growls, “you could have been _killed_.”

Dean can’t think, not when Cas is this close, with that fire in his eyes and a growl that makes Dean weak at the knees. He’s thought about kissing Cas so many times, and now they’re _so close_ , he could just reach out and _do_ it.

But he doesn’t. “I’m sorry,” he says finally. The silence stretches out between them, fragile and tenuous like spun glass.

In the end, Castiel is the one who turns away.

 

22.

Castiel likes college sports.

Not because of the sports themselves. No, he likes college sports because of the cheerleaders—and one cheerleader in particular.

The guy with bright green eyes and a spirited grin never fails to capture Cas’s attention. He throws himself into every routine with skill and enthusiasm, and Castiel still can’t work out whether it’s hotter to watch him do handsprings and round-offs, or lift a girl into the air with effortless ease. Either way, he’s fucking gorgeous, and Castiel doesn’t think he stands a chance—

Until the cheerleader catches Castiel’s eye after the game and waves.

 

23.

For the first time in his life, when Dean hears of the pride march taking place in KC, he doesn’t head in the opposite direction. Instead, he _just happens_ to take Cas out on a mini-road trip that day, and they  _just happen_ to encounter the march as it’s underway, in all its rainbow glory.

They watch from the sidelines, and it’s a while before Dean manages to choke out the words, “I think I’m bi.”

Cas just keeps watching the parade, but the corners of his eyes crinkle. He’s happy. _Proud_.

“Thank you for sharing that with me, Dean.”

 

24.

It’s the summer, and Dean and Castiel are on the open road, windows rolled down and empty highway stretching out ahead for miles. In a rare moment of weakness, when Castiel had asked if he could drive for a little while, Dean had said yes. He looks gorgeous behind the wheel—sleeves rolled up, hair tousled by the breeze, blue eyes fixed on the road and lips curled in a half-smile.

Dean can’t help but lift his phone and snap a photo of him. It’s too perfect not to capture; a perfect moment in a perfect day with his angel.

 

25.

It becomes, like almost everything between them, a competition.

“Whoever hunts the most monsters,” Cas says over the dinner table. “They get to do it.”

“Deal.”

Dean finds a few werewolves up north, a ghoul or two. Gets a string of cases that lead him west. By the time he returns to the bunker, he’s exhausted but confident in his win.

Until Cas returns, having taken out four different vampire nests in Missouri. Begrudgingly, but not overly upset, Dean admits defeat. He would have liked to win, but he won’t complain about this outcome either.

Two nights later, Cas proposes.

 

26.

Once high school is done, and education gives way to a dry, hot summer of freedom and the absence of authority, Castiel and Dean go on a roadtrip.

They don’t know exactly where they’re going—and really, isn’t that the fun of it? All that’s important is their car, and their music, and each other’s company. They’ve been friends for as long as they can remember, _more_ after Dean asked Cas to homecoming with him, and now it just… makes sense. With the open road stretching out ahead, and a blossoming romance between them, the world is theirs to conquer.

 

27.

The full moon is high, and Dean’s hands are dirt-caked and sore from work. He sits in his garden, amongst the silver-washed grass, and feels the strength of the garden’s magic wash over him. These late nights are always worth it for the power that the moon gives him.

A shadow passes overhead, but Dean doesn’t look up, just smiles as the crow settles onto the ground beside him. There’s a breath of wind, and then Cas is leaning against him, shoulder to shoulder. They share a tired smile, and their hands find each other, fingers intertwining despite the dirt.

 

28.

As Castiel falls, and becomes human, he gets the chance to discover the world all over again. He has a different perspective on mortality now. Every sunrise is limited, and so he makes it his mission to watch as many as he can. He tastes differently, has _cravings_ for certain foods and discovers which ones he can’t stand. He learns how to interact with people.

He learns how to _kiss_ , and how to love.

Because even better than watching the sunrises, or learning the nuances of being human… is spending his moments with Dean, just the two of them.

_Together_.

 

29.

In the college library, tucked away in the back corner and seldom seen, is a desk.

It is one desk in a row of desks, but the wood-inscribed words make it special. It began as doodles and random thoughts, but the next week, there were new words, in a different hand.

A _conversation_.

It continued like this—anonymous conversations conveyed through graffiti. When they ran out of desk space, they swapped to a hidden notebook, and then, at the end of term, decided to meet at that very desk.

And Dean and Castiel Winchester have been together ever since.

 

30.

It’s six months before he returns. Six months of not knowing, of worrying. Dean is good at his job, Castiel knows, but… six months undercover is such a long time, even for the best officer. He tries not to worry, even as the days tick by.

“Detective Winchester!”

Castiel looks up from his paperwork with a frown, trying to locate whoever called his name. He’s _busy_ , for fuck’s sake—

But none of his colleagues are looking towards him. Instead, they’re looking towards the precinct entrance. He turns to look, and there, standing at the entrance of the bullpen…

Is Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. [Storm](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/181695971184/thunder-rumbles-overhead-as-he-unfurls-his-great). 2. [Bunny](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/181859083584/one-word-prompt-bunny). 3. [Fire](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/182022309264/dean-has-been-hurt-so-many-times-in-his-life-hes). 4. [Coffee](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/182227782979/saltnhalo-cas-is-always-a-grumpy-son-of-a-bitch). 5. [Dolphin](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/182419673444/far-above-the-trees-where-the-clouds-touch-the). 6. [Letters](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/182890306149/six-months-ago-dean-lost-his-best-friend-a-car). 7. [Rose](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/182906131334/they-learned-how-to-do-this-at-school-last-week). 8. [Danger](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/183279871234/dean-discovered-in-dangerget-out-got-to-go). 9. [Folklore](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185285010454/the-forest-is-steeped-in-folklore-and-mystery-so). 10. [Inferno](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185293585889/dean-doesnt-get-sick-often-but-when-he-does-it). 11. [Luck](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185293813269/dean-plays-to-his-looks-his-youth-the-naivety-of). 12. [Hunger](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185307268849/dean-kneels-in-the-middle-of-the-floor-a-mockery). 13. [Stripper](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185340921754/dean-is-washing-his-car-in-the-garage-when-he). 14. [Runaway](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185351262624/when-dean-winchester-leaves-the-motel-on-his-own). 15. [Towel](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185495623124/its-a-little-while-before-cas-finally-gets). 16. [Egg](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185520303774/dean-had-thought-everything-would-change-in-the). 17. [Baby](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185536248629/deans-car-has-always-been-his-sanctuary-hes). 18. [Prophecy](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185542119249/ever-since-the-beginning-of-his-creation-castiel). 19. [Prank](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185582142794/the-winchester-prank-war-is-flaring-up-again). 20. [Ocean](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185587556609/castiel-stands-at-the-edge-of-the-ocean-and-looks). 21. [Glass](http://https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185746098899/cas-pushes-dean-against-the-wall-hands-fisted-in). 22. [Spirit](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185746620979/castiel-likes-college-sports-not-because-of-the). 23. [Pride](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185747910569/for-the-first-time-in-his-life-when-dean-hears-of). 24. [Photograph](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185768860484/its-the-summer-and-dean-and-castiel-are-on-the). 25. [Competition](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185977839114/it-becomes-like-almost-everything-between-them-a). 26. [Roadtrip](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/186304901019/once-high-school-is-done-and-education-gives-way). 27. [Moon](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/186328811664/the-full-moon-is-high-and-deans-hands-are). 28. [Craving](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/186387281904/as-castiel-falls-and-becomes-human-he-gets-the). 29. [Graffiti](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/186653023209/in-the-college-library-tucked-away-in-the-back). 30. [Undercover.](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/186666881409/its-six-months-before-he-returns-six-months-of)


	61. 100 word drabbles 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of short drabbles from the profound100 game run on the [Profound Bond discord](https://discord.gg/ARS3D3C), continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: Panic. 2: Hands.

1. 

It’s not until Dean is in his forties that he properly has his ‘bisexual panic,’ as Sam so helpfully calls it.

Sure, he’s checked out dudes in the past—fantasized about TV characters, maybe flirted with a few real people here and there—but actually having to face his feelings is different. Surely he’s too old now, has left it too long.

Eventually, he talks to Cas about it on a clear night, both leaning against the hood of the Impala and looking up at the stars. He tells him about everything.

As it turns out, it’s never too late.

 

2.

Dean’s ASL TA leans against the lecturer’s desk, speaking as he signs. Usually, such a deep, gravelly voice would be more than enough to distract Dean, but this time…

Dean can’t stop staring at Castiel’s hands.

Their movements are so fluid, his fingers moving almost without conscious thought, effortlessly and mesmerizingly forming each sign. _God_ , it’s hot.

When Dean’s gaze flicks up to Castiel’s face for a moment, Cas is watching him, and the corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile even though his signing never falters.

Dean swallows and shifts in his seat.

He’s so _royally_ fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. [Panic](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/186668527584/its-not-until-dean-is-in-his-forties-that-he). 2. [Hands](http://https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/186948162554/deans-asl-ta-leans-against-the-lecturers-desk).

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com), and subscribe to me on ao3 [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo) if you'd like to be notified when I post/update.
> 
> There are also some ficlets I didn't want to cross-post here, so here are the tumblr links for those:  
> [Sabriel bakery](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/166724241614/sabriel-9)  
> [Cas in suspenders](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/175633228924/medicatedmaniac-anonymous-sketch-request)  
> [Micestiel](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/176549581244/down-by-the-edge-of-the-river-beneath-the-shade)  
> [Sleeping hunters](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/180101827704/c-kaeru-after-the-apocalypse-they-deserve-the)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] space prison break](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20345149) by [zaffre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaffre/pseuds/zaffre)




End file.
